If I Should Die
by Ever-Daring
Summary: In a world where Master of Entities rule absolutely, Harry is one of four, acknowledged as Master of Death. Helping keep the balance between Chaos and Peace, Harry gets a rude reminder of his roots and where he came from. "For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." Sebastian/Harry SLASH. Immortal Harry.
1. Prologue

**If I Should Die**

Summary: "There are other entities larger than Fate, Harry, it's true, but they all have their Masters to answer to. Fate doesn't, and maybe that's what makes her so… tricky." Slash.

Disclaimer: All rights reserved belong to J.K. Rowling (for the Harry Potter characters), Yana Toboso (for Kuroshitsuji characters), and to Mitch Albom (for borrowing Dor). The plot, however, is **mine**. I am not making money off of this. This is just fun.

Author's Note: I'll make this as short as possible. This fic is slash. I need a beta, (so excuse the grammatical errors), and plot suggestions, predictions, and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Updates are AT LEAST once every two weeks.

 **Prologue:**

"There are far too many of _them_ ," a low voice snarled, "If ever you decide to do your job, do let us know, so that we may adequately do ours."

Had it not been for the fact that they could not see his face, he would have rolled his eyes. As it was, he let out a mental snort at the barb thrown his way; his sole contribution to the current proceedings, during the eve of the occurring new moon.

"I find it humorous, that you hate _them_ so much, when you have _them_ to thank for your existence," another voice quipped.

Each of them spoke in a different tongue. Each, simultaneously, belonged to all the timelines, and to none of them.

As far as Harry knew, there were only four Masters in existence, himself included. Their monthly meetings, both mandatory and out of his control, happened while he slept. This served as the only time they could communicate to one another, which Harry was quite thankful for.

Individually, his fellow Masters could possibly be described as bearable, even in large quantities, but together, they were exhausting. Mind you, Harry had yet to _see_ any of them, but by listening in, he acquired a taste of each of their personalities, knowing them in a way that simply meeting them through physical means could not.

Although all of them held such a unique power in their palm that none other, not even their fellow Masters, could ever dream to acquire or duplicate, it was quite obvious that some were more powerful than others. Dor, for example, was above them all as the Clock Master, or, as humans commonly knew him as, Father Time.

He'd been one of the first Masters to ever exist, before even time itself. Someone, who the other Masters dubbed as "The Great Master", (or God; but that was just Harry's speculation), had gifted all who existed with opportunities to do as they wished.

Dor, being the fool that he was, decided that he could use it to his greatest advantage if he found a way to count how many opportunities he had used, and how many he had left. The Great Master, in his fury upon finding Dor trying to measure God's greatest gift, punished him by intertwining his existence with the very element that he tried to exploit. It was decreed, "So long as ungrateful beings like you exist – those who measure my greatest gift, so shall you serve them during their… Time."

Dor mumbled the last line he's heard with his human ears as often as Harry remembered all his short comings. So quite often, Harry conceded, and that was what made them so alike. There were some, like Harry, whose whole position as Master depended upon their hatred of acquiring their seat of power. Dor was one of them. And Chaos was another.

Unlike the other Masters, Chaos was an entity within himself, dual in his Mastery; he served as his own Master. Save for God, Chaos didn't answer to anyone. Contrary to his name, other than being Master of Chaos, he was also Master of Control. It made some odd sort of sense to Harry. It wouldn't do anyone any good, now would it, if he didn't have any control at all. If anything, Harry thought to himself, Chaos needed the most amount of control out of the four, seeing as he could wreak the most amount of havoc.

And then, there were those that were handpicked, due to the beauty in their joy, to proceed to their position. Master of Life, or more commonly known as, Mother Nature. Harry grew warm, just thinking of her. Although she was seen woven into every detail of one's lifespan, (obviously), she didn't act as a control like Dor, or a force like Chaos. Mother Nature, in this aspect, resembled Harry the most; both were silent companions of everyone, touching their lives every so often, so as not to forget they were present, altogether. They both induced tears, whether sad or happy ones, and they both served a very solid purpose that had everything to do with human kind.

But even with the four Masters present, there was one force that refused to bend its knee to The Great Father. It stood against the very endowment He bestowed; free will. It didn't have a gender, but if Harry was pressed to decide on what it could be, he knew that it would most definitely be a _she_.

This force resembled a slighted young woman. It was too malicious to be called a lady, and it held the long memory of a grudge which accompanied that of a woman scorned. If anyone special were to be birthed in the existing dimensions, it grew jealous of the beauty in humanity's brilliance, and sank its claws into them. The new weight that attached itself to the person, more often than not, ended in the human's elaborately repulsive and tragic demise.

Harry would know. He was the subject of her fury, once.

And maybe, with the way that things played out, he couldn't bring himself to feel a smidgen of remorse towards hating this particular entity. Because who could blame him, really? He didn't have a _choice_ in the matter. All he did to receive her ire was _exist_. And although he understood the depth of jealousy, he couldn't quite bring himself to excuse her actions in trying to snuff him out of his life.

Harry always _did_ have a very potent disapproval of Fate. Harry smirked. But the joke's on her now, isn't it. Harry was immortal; The Master of Death.

He sighed. Ironic, wasn't it, to find the only thing he's wanted, to be the sole thing he can't have.

Master of Death. Harry scoffed. Master of No-Eternal-Rest was more like it.


	2. If I Should Die CH 1

**If I Should Die**

Summary: "There are other entities larger than Fate, Harry, it's true, but they all have their Masters to answer to. Fate doesn't, and maybe that's what makes her so… tricky." Slash.

Disclaimer: All rights reserved belong to J.K. Rowling (for the Harry Potter characters), Yana Toboso (for Kuroshitsuji characters), and to Mitch Albom (for borrowing Dor). The plot, however, is **mine**. I am not making money off of this. This is just fun.

Author's Note: I'll make this as short as possible. This fic is slash. I need a beta, (so excuse the grammatical errors), and plot suggestions, predictions, and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Updates are AT LEAST once every two weeks.

 **Chapter 1:**

If he were to have a tattoo, Harry thought, it would spell out "Irony", and have laid itself boldly across his forehead.

Harry rubbed his scar. It wasn't bothering him, exactly, but it still tingled from the recently severed connection with his "colleague's" latest call. After the debriefing the other Masters gave him on his current assignment, Harry looked around his office mutely, wondering what the bloody chances were that the Master of DEATH would be walking about, doing, hmmm, I don't know, saving _lives._ This wasn't his god-shitting job. This was the exact _opposite_ of his job.

"Dr. Corsair, you've a house call," an airy far away voice called out.

Harry started, completely caught unawares by a female, who apparently, was just past the exterior of the smoky glass of his office door. "Yes," Harry replied, clearing his throat, "I remember. At what time again, if you don't mind my asking?"

"They wanted you over at the earliest of your convenience, Dr.," she said, "They even mentioned something about bringing an escort by to pick you up."

Harry sighed, standing from behind a large oak desk warily, aching muscles protesting the act. "That's splendid." He looked around for his coat, knowing that it was October 16th, year 1838, and that around this time of year, it would be rather chilly. His eyes fell upon a name plate on his desk that read, "Grim J. Corsair." Harry smiled. It was a convenient thing, being granted the favor of picking his name, this time around.

Flinging the basic black coat over his tailored suit, Harry hurried out of his office, nodding once to his (apparently present) blonde secretary. "He insisted on waiting outside for you, sir," she said dazedly, "he doesn't seem to mind the cold."

Harry's step faltered. Everyone minded the cold. That's what coats were invented for. It sold really well because people grew cold. They put it on. They got warm.

Why didn't the stranger mind the cold?

Harry tuned on his heal, facing his secretary. "Do you happen to know his name, Miss…" he looked down on her desk, which lacked a name plate.

"Sophia," she intoned back, her voice getting higher at the end, like a question. "My name's Sophia Vidra, sir." Her eyes curved in amusement. "You always were forgetful."

"Yes, well, I –" Harry stuttered, his left hand automatically bunching the small hairs at the nape of his neck. "I do apologize about that…" he started backing away from her slowly, eyes dancing on every wooden accent in the small building that consisted of just the miniscule sitting area, Sophia's corner, and his office in the back. Why the bloody shit was everything made of goddamn wood? "I _do_ have an appointment so..." He trailed off, finally reaching the brass doorknob, relief evident on his slackened shoulders when he felt the metal's low temperature upon his palm. He gave a hasty wave and hopped out of the warm embrace of his building.

Harry surveyed the area. Looking up, he noticed that his building held a quaint second story. Digging through the information he was given, the apartment available up top would serve as his temporary sleeping quarters. Whatever small plot of greenery he would have had, decorating the front of his house-like building, was covered in wet freezing water. He was grateful he had slipped in with the particular items on his person, the way that they did, because knowing that it was in the early Victorian Era, if he hadn't been dressed in these leather boots, he would have been wearing something even more ridiculous. Probably some miserable cloth material, that did absolute _shite_ in keeping the water out.

Harry shuddered. His toes would have been soaked and freezing, and he'd have half a mind to Avada someone at random, hoping to steal _their_ precious leather boots in place of his.

"Doctor Corsair," an eerily flat voice intoned, "right this way, please." Left glove out and extended in a general direction, Harry felt his eyes narrow in warily. It was a young man, tall, dark hair, straight nose, and a rather nice chin-jaw combination, if Harry ever did see any.

He looked fit. He didn't look cold. He looked suspicious.

"Young master Phantomhive is needing your attention," he continued, holding out a small purse with what Harry could only assume was currency. After the… butler? – Harry wasn't really sure that's what he was – dropped the pouch upon Harry's hand, he continued, "He sends his apologies on the lack of transportation. Our driver is deceased. Almost everyone is, these days." The young man looked at Harry slyly from the corner of his eye. "As I'm sure you well know."

The small downy hair on Harry's arms stood on end. It was with sheer control and practice that Harry managed not to react. What number of lifetime was this, that someone had said something to try to throw him off? Fortieth? Sixtieth? Somewhere in between, Harry was willing to wager.

"Yes, I know," Harry sighed, dropping his head forward, genuinely saddened by the amount of lives lost in this particular dimension. "I wish I could do more." And he really did feel this way. "But even as a medical professional, there is only so much that I can do." Harry glanced sideways at his escort. "It isn't like I've magic."

The young man chuckled. "Yes. Pity, isn't it." It wasn't a question, and Harry only dug his gloveless fingers in his coat pocket deeper.

This young man was fascinating, in the way standing twenty feet in the air on a broomstick was intriguing; you didn't know if a slight misstep would kill you, but you still wanted to find out what would happen.

They spent the walk up to the downtown manor in companionable silence. Occasionally, Harry would glance up, looking at the pristine buildings and walkways. It seemed that the closer they got to the manor, the cleaner their immediate surroundings looked.

"I find it odd," the butler said, "how you happen to be one of the most highly recommended physicians within the realm, yet no one, not even the Queen's advisors, thought to call you for help when searching for a cure."

A double edged sword, that question was.

"Well," Harry said carefully, "A lot of people choose other doctors before me, unfortunately. My practice, although on the side of exemplary, doesn't detract from the fact that they simply find my… preferences, unsavory." Harry chuckled at his own private joke.

"How so," the young man asked, slowing as they neared a set of large, completely unnecessarily ornate gates. They were unlocked, Harry noticed.

Harry hesitated, before replying with a wicked gleam in his eye, "They find that my preferences lie with the wrong gender."

The young man stopped walking altogether, and Harry left him, swiftly proceeding through the gates and into the house, eager for some warmth.

 **Author's Note** : For those that are wondering in which order the Masters and the existing Entities were created, here they are:

Chaos ("Before time, before anything existed, was Chaos." – Some book that I'm probably misquoting LOL)

Dor (Existed before time itself)

Mother Nature (And with her, Life on a general level)

Death (Because where Life goes, Death follows. More on this later.)

Fate

Harry Potter (Although Death existed prior to Harry being it's Master, there was no balance, giving free reign to Dark Lords i.e. Voldemort, Grindewald, etc. exploiting this very loophole. Harry's existence acts as a control variable to keep the side of life and death even. He's got a severely more "active" role, in comparison to Mother Nature, who, for all obvious (but completely coincidental) is a female and acts as the passive mother role to all things alive.)

 **READ AND REVIEW.** Please. I'm doing my best to do frequent updates. Like I just uploaded Chapter 1 a few hours ago, and now you have Chapter 2. A little feedback isn't too much to ask for, is it?


	3. If I Should Die CH 2

**If I Should Die**

Summary: "There are other entities larger than Fate, Harry, it's true, but they all have their Masters to answer to. Fate doesn't, and maybe that's what makes her so… tricky." Slash.

Disclaimer: All rights reserved belong to J.K. Rowling (for the Harry Potter characters), Yana Toboso (for Kuroshitsuji characters), and to Mitch Albom (for borrowing Dor). The plot, however, is **mine**. I am not making money off of this. This is just fun.

Author's Note: I'll make this as short as possible. This fic is slash. I need a beta, (so excuse the grammatical errors), and plot suggestions, predictions, and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Updates are AT LEAST once every two weeks.

Someone said that although my plot seemed like a good idea, it doesn't have enough content (yet) for anyone to be able to tell where it will go. I would like to say thank you to this reviewer, ( **Luna LS** ), for your input. I was formatting it like a chapter book (the physical kind), and I should have known better to do that, because with my brief chapters, it makes for a choppy kind of story. I will remedy this! Thank you so much.

Reviews are appreciated, and, (for now), updates are averaging to every few days.

Warning: _grammatical errors_

 **Chapter 2:**

Harry was more amused than intimidated, staring down at the frail figure in the sheets. The mattress was extravagant and unnecessary, just like every inch of the ridiculously sized manor, including the child's speech. Which for now, apparently, revolved around threats surrounding Harry and the guaranteed improved health that _Harry_ should be supplying, his occupation, considering.

A child, Harry thought with humor, was demanding that Harry _save_ him. Young Master Phantomhive initially tried to barter for his life by trying to bribe him with riches, to which Harry didn't blink an eye to. It then proceeded to slight pleading, (even if the "pleading" consisted of a haughty tone, and a list of things the child still needed to accomplish before death), and now, it seemed that the Phantomhive brat had resorted to blackmail.

"…will find them, Dr. Corsair. All your past lovers and that odd looking secretary of yours, gone. The second that I cease to exist, the same fate, they will greet." The voice was a little more than a breeze, promising to deliver a hurricane, and against Harry's better judgement, a corner of his lip quirked up.

"Young Master… Seal, was it?" Harry inquired, a tremor in his voice, indicating that he was a _hair's width_ away from collapsing into chuckles.

"Ciel," the butler/escort supplied flatly from behind him, while the young man ground his teeth.

"Of course. Young Master Shell," a growl escaped the juvenile's lips, "I will do my utmost, concerning your condition, and I am hopeful in saying that your health is still salvageable." Harry fiddled with this glasses, keeping his eyes downcast as he cleaned them. The only purpose they served nowadays, was to act as a shield to mute the eerie shine that they've developed over the ages. Much like Harry's late Headmaster Dumbledor's blue eyed twinkle, his eyes developed a depth with the amount of knowledge he acquired throughout the years. But unlike the lemon drop loving fool, as Harry fondly remembered his late mentor, Harry's sharp eyes were considered cuttingly precise and cold, where Dumbledor's was more of a warm and inviting twinkle.

"Leave us," the child commanded to the current occupants of the room, his dark glassy eye trained on Harry. The other was covered with an odd patch. Gouging, perhaps? Harry pondered as the others left the expansive room. Harry looked at Ciel's exposed eye shrewdly, and shifted from one foot to another. When his perspective of the eye changed, it had held a brief sheen of murky navy blue. Strange.

"Doctor, I'm sure you've heard of the symptoms regarding my… illness." An expectant pause followed, to which Harry shoved his slipping frames up the bridge of his nose, and hastily nodded his silent assent. "It doesn't come as a surprise to me when I see things that," the child hesitated, "aren't quite as they seem." He paused. Harry did nothing to encourage him to continue. "They say hallucinations are one of them." A pregnant silence filled the air, filled with ideas that Harry had no doubt, frightened the young child to express.

Harry hummed a low note under his breath. He briefly considered Ciel with his trained eye, his _alternate_ gaze, if you will, and saw that yes, the child was rather near his expiration date. Three days, at best, without Harry's help, and roughly six months, with it.

Harry didn't collect souls; no one did. They gravitated towards their predestined location, decided by a power larger than Harry himself. All he was directly in charge of, was the process, the length, and the permanence that surrounded the event.

As far as Harry was concerned, you didn't prolong your stay without the Master of Death's consent, you didn't bring anyone back from the dead, yourself included, and you didn't cheat death by exchanging your expiration date for something else. Where the soul ended up, Harry couldn't care less.

It was just too much complication to worry himself about what came after Harry's jurisdiction, and The Great Father just did not pay him quite enough to do it. So Harry simply did not concern himself with it at all.

With Harry's important role in all this, it did not come as a surprise to hear the next words that spilled themselves clumsily out of Ciel's mouth.

"You're the Reaper," the child prattled, his tone quivering now, unsure, "I see – I see that you've got this dark cloak on, but it's not – " Ciel squinted, "it's not… _there_ , really." The marble like gaze dropped down to Harry's chest. "And your heart's not... It's this odd – pulse, not a _thing_." Harry remained silent.

Ciel grew uncomfortable, shifting once again. "I can see that you glow white," he whispered, his tone a mix between sadness, awe, and bitterness. "You glow white, and the pulse is red, and your cloak is grey but _you_ glow _white_ ," the child spit out.

Harry held his silence. Young Master Phantomhive's fury was all too apparent, his jealousy, sticking to his words like unwanted slime.

"So if anyone can save me, it should be _you_." Harry stared, not a smidgen impressed. He had heard the same words before, with more vehemence from people who held a more important place in his heart. Their fear always drove them to cowardice, in the end, and their silence only came when their expiration did. People, no matter how much they were inclined to be "innately good", were frightened of what they could not understand.

But Harry received the welcomed silence eventually, free of the acidic accusations. All of them thanked him, in the end, though Harry didn't require it, then. They've done their damage during their time, while living, and after a while, Harry grew desensitized to any ill will towards him and his natural role in the grand scheme of things.

It seemed, Harry thought, that he was the _sole_ person to have greeted Death gladly, with a purpose that was not at all selfish.

So no. A petty infant, spitting half made threats, with half-baked insults, wouldn't touch him. Couldn't, really. He was long past that, even if the Young Master did paint the perfect picture of utter melancholy.

"Control," Harry recalled Chaos's teaching, "is blessed to those with _patience_. And given the opportunity, it even trumps pure _power._ "

And so Harry kept his face blank, his gaze sharp, and considered his words before he spoke them. "There is no Reaper." The child's gaze brewed fury, hot in his belief that he was being lied to. "But I am as close to an equivalent as you could probably get, given your lack of information." Harry clasped his hands calmly behind his back.

The Young Master Phantomhive's expression cooled, his ire ebbing with the information, and he assessed Harry quietly, considering his words.

"Have you seen it?" Ciel murmured, half embarrassed.

Harry looked at him with faint fondness. "I have not. But I imagine Heaven to be rather beautiful, filled with those you love and miss."

Harry smiled faintly. It wasn't too bad, being Master of Death. They visited him of their own free will when he grew lonely, and kept him company in between his required activities. He never had to call them. It was like his loved ones knew when he needed them. But even with the occasional good company, the one thing Harry wanted was rest. And even after death, Harry wasn't blessed with that favor.

"No," the Young Master replied, "Not Heaven; Hell. Have you seen Hell?" Harry stilled, his thoughts abruptly cut short. What was this minor, a _baby_ in Harry's eyes, _doing_ , inquiring about such a place?

"Why do you ask?" Harry replied evenly. It would do absolutely no good if he frightened the child to the point of Ciel withholding important information.

"I… I imagine," the child replied cautiously, "I imagine that's where I'd end up, the way I am." His words were spoken with precision and certainty, albeit quietly. "Heaven's for the good, isn't it? And also for the weak, if what Father Thomas's preaching is to be believed." The boy frowned. "But I'm neither." Ciel paused, contemplatively. "Besides," he whispered, "there is no love lost for the wicked. And believe me when I say, everything I've ever loved, I've lost." He snapped his gaze to Harry, disconcerting in his calm demeanor. "And that has made me very wicked, indeed."

Harry left the room, feeling a strange mix of sympathy and discomfort. On one hand, Harry mused, he knew intimately, the factors that contributed to leading one astray, onto the path of wrongdoings. On another, however understandable a malicious deed was, it didn't make it excusable.

But Harry was glad that he had that kind of conversation with the Young Master. Considering the purpose that called Harry's presence to this exact point in time and space, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that the child played a rather large part in its proceedings.

After putting Ciel Phantomhive to rest, Harry's alternate gaze conjured a piece of magical parchment, that to anyone – (magical or not) – who was not a Master of a certain Entity, seemed invisible. He fed his magical signature into the request for more Time for Ciel, from Dor, who was of course, in charge of such things, and it dissolved in a gradual rain of bright pixels.

For every instance that Harry passed the request for more Time, Dor would grant, given that Harry kept in mind the preexisting set of limitations, dubbed, " **Round Rule of Two** ". It applied to all the Masters, concerning the Entity that was not their own. They were as follows:

 **1\. To Each, It Will; So It Shall.**

None will interfere with another's Entity. The concerning party's existing Master of said Entity(s) must approve all premeditated actions. In Harry's current case, it meant that if an individual required a longer life expectancy, the request must be approved by both Mother Nature and Father Time, with six months of elongated stay, at most per instance. Cue fancy enchanted permission slip.

 **2\. Finished at the First.**

Should he fail to right the natural order, he could not simply have a "redo". Regardless of circumstance, time went _one_ way. Each timeline started at a different time, going at a different pace, and they might chance upon having very similar occupants, but they all went in the same direction. Forward.

It would be challenging, Harry mused, to accomplish his task, considering his current objective in this timeline. There was a large spike in the mortality rate, and that was well and good, had it not been for the fact that not a single one of the souls taken, were due.

This led to an overabundance of unused Time. But the Time that was now free already had the individual's trace of Life woven conspicuously through it. It was an utter waste, in Dor's eyes, because with the existing Life Entity already saturating it, that left Dor unable to reuse the energy. This left the energy floating, drawn in by the sole Entity that was subject to absorbing any sort of disturbance; Chaos.

Currently, his balance heavily favored one side, and it was with sheer power and _control_ that Chaos did not unleash his wrath upon all of the existing worlds.

If things went favorably easy and smooth for Harry, he would have to act as the conduit, redirecting the sheer excess existence of pure chaotic energy from Chaos himself, into the culprit, so that the order may be righted once again. In doing so, it would rid the Masters one menace, and hopefully restore an (unfortunately, naturally short lived) sort of peace.

And here Harry was, sent to do a job that was larger than him, feeling incredibly inadequate, and a tad bit inexperienced.

He blew out a breath. It _was_ a lot of pressure, if he allowed himself a moment of pure juvenile contempt, but Rome wasn't built in a day.

Harry stiffened, feeling a familiar sort of aura from behind him. He slowly turned to face his previous escort, the butler. "Doctor… Grim," he leered, firm pale pink lips stretching out into a smile, "How positively appropriate."

No, Harry huffed, annoyed, Rome _wasn't_ built in a day, but it burned down in one.

"Yes?" Harry smiled, chastely, keeping his lips closed. It wouldn't do well to show this young man teeth. He might take it as an invitation to pleasant conversation. No. Harry was merely being polite.

They were far from friends to warrant such a smile, and if Harry had to consider this butler an acquaintance, he would be forced to say that he was _most unfortunate_ to be called even that.

"Your eyes are still present," the butler muttered, his tone low, almost a growl. 

Harry's gaze widened, recalling his mistake. He hastened to shut off his alternate gaze, dulling the sheen in his look, making it more believable that Harry could possibly be mistaken as human.

"You're a _Master_ … now," the butler positively purred with amusement at the last word, eyes raking in Harry's form.

His eyes looked different now, Harry noticed stiffly. They were red, resembling rubies, with how they flickered occasionally, indicating some sort of magic behind his gaze. They looked so familiar, in their shade, that Harry shivered, reminded of his vulnerability in his past mortal lives. How fresh those wounds were. How shallow the emotions seemed to rest, to be able to rise to the surface so easily.

"We're distantly acquainted," the young man intoned, amused that Harry had yet to guess what he was, _who_ he was. "I'm a fan of your… work." The last word was said in a way that held humor to him.

Harry felt his stomach go glacial. Nerve endings at the tips of his fingers, died, his apprehension lulling them to numbness. It couldn't. He'd died. He'd killed him. All seven parts of him. He'd _killed_ him. All. Seven. Parts. Of. Him. It couldn't.

"Vol – " Harry choked on the word. But it couldn't be. The physical resemblance wasn't even _there._ And the Dark Lord's magic wasn't even _present_. But it couldn't be. "Voldemort," Harry finally got out, his lower lip quivering. Nerves. Nerves. Nerves.

"Ooh, my dear boy," the young man hissed, practically laughing, "close, but not quite." He glided towards Harry; the energy in the young man's limbs was positively solid. He was excited, seeing Harry as scared as he was.

Harry couldn't move. For a while, he forgot that he even knew how.

The butler was not an inch from his face now, and his energy, not nearly as docile as to be called _magic_ , was caressing Harry everywhere. It felt delicious. It felt lecherous and vile with all these terrible intentions behind it completely apparent. It felt. So. _Good._

Harry had never been more disgusted in his life.

"I'm not Voldemort. I'm not mortal," the butler continued, his voice like velvet, giving little licks to Harry's auditory senses. "But I'm how he got his… _demonic_ power." Harry couldn't even see the young man any longer, his eyes had fallen shut. Was it due to terror? Or worse, pleasure?

Harry pried his eyes open, begging to the Great Father that he didn't look as weak as he felt. His eyes, without his conscious volition, fluttered closed as warm smooth lips delivered small kisses in the varying areas around his mouth.

Harry wanted to hurl.

The kisses ceased, and with them the absence of Harry's will power.

Harry opened his eyes once again. "No," the butler kept on, "I'm Sebastian Michaelis. The demon your misinformed… 'Dark Lord' called to aid him in his… quest."

Harry didn't have much time to digest it, because in mere nanoseconds upon hearing of the proclamation, cold, beautiful, welcomed darkness engulfed him.

 **READ AND REVIEW, please.** Plot suggestions, predictions, and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Updates are AT LEAST once every two weeks.

For now, updates are averaging every day; every few days, the latest.


	4. If I Should Die CH 3

**If I Should Die**

Summary: "There are other entities larger than Fate, Harry, it's true, but they all have their Masters to answer to. Fate doesn't, and maybe that's what makes her so… tricky." Slash.

Disclaimer: All rights reserved belong to J.K. Rowling (for the Harry Potter characters), Yana Toboso (for Kuroshitsuji characters), and to Mitch Albom (for borrowing Dor). The plot, however, is **mine**. I am not making money off of this. This is just fun.

Author's Note: I'll make this as short as possible. This fic is slash. I need a beta, (so excuse the grammatical errors), and plot suggestions, predictions, and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Updates are AT LEAST once every two weeks.

At least half of you guys said that you don't really know where the story is going yet, and hopefully this chapter makes the direction of the plot more apparent.

Reviews are appreciated, and, (for now), updates are averaging at every few days. School is starting tomorrow for me though, (January 20th, 2016), so it won't be daily anymore.

Warning: _grammatical errors._

 **Chapter 3:**

Harry's eyes were still closed. They have been closed, contrary to his being fully aware, and he will be _damned_ before he opened them.

Admitting to awareness meant addressing what happened prior to his loss of consciousness, and he wasn't too keen on what kind of conversation would follow _that_ debacle.

"Young Master Phantomhive requires your immediate attention, Doctor," a familiar voice said, amusement lilting his tone. The person paused, considering Harry stubbornly still form. "Whenever you're ready, now."

Harry grunted, heat filling his cheeks. It was rare moments like these that he could understand the reasoning behind his fellow Masters thinking him one so _young._ These events came few and far in between because Harry spent most of his time with mortals, with which he compared himself to, in terms of normalcy. He saw himself as _ancient_ , with the number of lifetimes that he's weathered, the amount of danger he's lived, willingly, in some cases.

But in these instances where he felt most inadequate, his colleagues were right. He was young.

He rose to a sitting position slowly, mentally noting how his flexibility was starting to fail him, and quickly let out a yelp. Harry hardly was hardly ever in pain, slight or otherwise, and the state of his sore body had him concerned. The encounter must have taxed his magic greatly.

"Doctor," the voice persisted, sounding slightly annoyed now, "Young Master Phantomhive." Harry ignored the butler, closing his eyes. All of his senses were heightened after his transition, but of them all, Harry favored his hearing.

With little to no effort, his auditory senses opened, reaching into the other room where he could hear harsh breathing. It would have sounded indecent to him, had he not already known that it was a mere singular person, Ciel, probably reabsorbing the Energy Harry requested for him.

"He's fine," Harry said, voice muffled with the hand cupping around his mouth, in attempts to recapture his runaway yawn. "He's recovering, but he's fine." Rubbing the heel of his hand into his right eye, Harry noticed that he no longer had his glasses on his person. After a quick self-inspection, he determined that it was the only item missing.

"My glasses," Harry called out in question, "do you have them." It wasn't a question, per se, because Harry already knew that the butler was the sole person to have gotten _that_ close to him in a while.

"They're ruined," the butler answered, not looking up from picking imaginary lint from his pristine gloves.

Harry threw a hasty glance of disbelief his way. "What." Another none question.

Sebastian scowled, growing irritated quickly. Eons of dealing with humans asking such asinine questions were starting to chip at his overall placid temperament.

"They," Sebastian started, all but growling, "Are. Rue," he paused dramatically, enunciating each syllable, "Inned."

Sebastian watched Harry's disbelief sharpen itself into disdain with no small amount of satisfaction.

"Yes, well, I know that," Harry hissed, "but _how_ were they 'rue-inned'?" The last word was said with a copious amount of scorn. Sebastian could have easily drawn this out, using the useless banter as a fence to keep each other away from the real topic that the Master of Death did not wanted to discuss, to which the demon only obliged out of vindictive delight.

"You shattered it yourself," he replied, drinking in the sweet incredulity that was slowly trickling onto the wizard's face.

"But that glass was made by NeverWeather!" Harry exclaimed in a cynical tone. "Anything made by NeverWeather never – " Harry paused, contemplating before a ludicrous grin split his face, "never weathers!"

Sebastian scoffed. This man in front of him, whose appearance spoke around twenty years, was a little over eighty centuries in existence.

Harry chuckled to himself, shaking his head at his poor excuse of a joke. He genuinely found it funny.

Yes, Sebastian thought drily, eighty centuries in experience, and he apparently had the mind of toddler.

"It shattered, along with all the glass in the immediate room we were in," Sebastian replied in explanation, examining Harry shrewdly.

Harry paused, mid chortle, his face sobering. Were the windows alright?

Sebastian was still looking at him from the corner of his eye. "Fortunately, the house was made to deal with unsavory persons in mind; the glass, although shattered beyond recognition, is thick enough to hold together. It looks absolutely opaque, now."

Harry's shoulders crept infinitesimally closer to his ears, sheepish. "Who's bloody fault _was_ that, anyway," Harry grumbled to himself, under his breath, "no one told you to stand so godshitting close to me, performing _unmentionables._ "

"Tell me, _Doctor_ ," Sebastian mocked, "how _well_ do you even know of your position?" An eyebrow was raised, and the smallest spark of a smile was seen, peaking from just the edge of his lips.

"Enough," Harry replied slowly, standing; guarded. He felt his body erect itself automatically. It was a standard defensive pose that Chaos had instilled into him.

"Discipline and control", Chaos would voice, his own body ram rod straight, "are _visible,_ Harry. They are tangible things that can tighten the strings of a world that would, otherwise, fall apart." He would then turn his head, and view Harry with no small amount of disdain. "And the effects of their absence are even more apparent and catastrophic."

Sebastian considered the young man in front of him. Although Harry had a good amount of centuries behind him, he could hardly compare in age with the demon. Sebastian had already been present before Mother Nature's forbearer had been but a babe. So it didn't come as a surprise that although Harry did his _job_ well enough, he wasn't familiar with the available materials he could perform it _with_.

"Tell me," Sebastian started, "how does one go about, perspiring?"

Harry sneered, turning. He was a damn _doctor._ He knew exactly where each of a person's bodily fluid came from. If the idiot demon wasn't going to tell him something of use, he should would just have to check on the Young Master.

"And," Sebastian called after his retreating figure, "how do you suppose an ordinary wizard secretes magic, much less a Master?" Harry halted in his steps. "Because an ordinary wizard's magical core can create more magical energy if their store is depleted. Whether it be by war, or everyday use." Sebastian watched as Harry, although still not facing him, brought his heels together in a formal stand. "Where does all the excess go?"

"Your point, Michaelis," Harry urged, stiff.

The use of Sebastian's last name had him letting out an annoyed hiss. He hated his surname. "My point," he ground out, eyes and tone absolutely venomous, "is that everyone secretes _something._ And _you,_ you naïve, insolent prat, exude a ridiculous amount of Death Energy."

Harry stayed still, waiting.

"I am a _demon_ , you urchin!" Sebastian all but spit out, "What energy do you _think_ I feed off of?!"

Harry turned, the revelation oh so slowly dawning to him, making his eyes widen marginally. Sebastian, even with his impressive height, was slightly crouched, his fury making his fists ball and his eyes flash dangerously between heated demonic copper, and his more humane brown.

"You weren't kissing me," Harry said slowly.

"No," Sebastian snarled.

"You were…" Harry trailed off, thinking, "eating..?" But that couldn't be right. Harry frowned. Even if Sebastian _did_ eat Death's Energy, what kind of creature would need to feed near the mou –

Harry's eerie green eyes shone with new discovered information. "Dementors," he breathed.

Sebastian nodded stiffly. "Distant children of demons, yes." Harry's lips turned down. "Thus the ' _dem'_ in Dementors," Sebastian intoned drily, "sounds a lot like _demon_ , does it not." Sarcasm. Harry batted it away, impatient.

No, that wasn't it. Harry thought, a feeling of restlessness settling in his stomach. The energy he felt coming off of Sebastian in waves, Harry thought back, frowning. Dementors invoked _fear_. What he felt was near absolute pleasure.

Harry hesitantly opened his mouth again as Sebastian quirked an inquiring eyebrow. "…Incubi…" Harry's tone lifting at the end, uncertain.

"Not as distantly related as Dementors, but yes. They're family too," Sebastian answered. "That's why an incubus is also considered a _demon._ " Smug bastard.

"And now that your ignorant, infantile concern for personal assault has been addressed," Sebastian said with scorn, "you should really tend to Young Master Phantomhive."

"I'm not a child," Harry bit back, embarrassed in his lack of knowledge.

"You are, when it comes to your kingdom," Sebastian retorted quickly, looking down his nose at Harry's slighter frame. "You view your fellow Masters as your only colleagues. While it may be true that they are the ones whose actions affect you the immediately, they are not the only forces of which you should reckon." The butler then quickly fled to the next room, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

: : : : : : : : : : : : Break : : : : : : : : : : : :

Harry opened the opulent double doors that lead to Ciel's resting quarters. He was pleased to see a ruddy red, coloring the young boy's face. And although the child had such a stern expression on his face, at least he was mobile, Harry concluded, watching as the Phantomhive heir purposefully walked towards him.

"Doctor," Ciel greeted, each syllable crisp.

Harry's eyes crinkled, though he did not smile. "Your wellness gladdens me, young sir."

The teenager narrowed his gaze at the medical practitioner, and hummed. "There are things we must discuss," he replied, staring pointedly at a far door to the right.

Harry followed his line of sight, internally sighing. "I'm certain you have a lot to say," he agreed slyly, neither addressing nor denying the possibility of his person offering answers freely.

"To the study then," Ciel said, voice still soft. While the butler and the child led the way, Harry surveyed them speculatively.

Ciel didn't seem to be in much better of a condition, although mobility was present. Sebastian, on the other hand; he was practically crowing the child, seemingly apprehensive about something.

Once they reached their destination, Harry looked around. It wasn't a study at all. It was a library, a little over half of the one at Hogwarts. Not nearly as old, Harry granted, but old enough that you could see the differences in wood grains. This meant they added to the already existing structures, Harry observed.

"Sit," Ciel said petulantly, staring at Harry. He took a seat directly opposite of a large fire place.

In what sort of situation, Harry thought to himself, would anyone ever need a fire place this massive? The extravagant thing could have roasted a centaur in its hearth, and _still_ have room to fit a Hippogriff.

There were two remaining chairs, one on either side of his. After he had sank down on the surprisingly plush couch, Sebastian and Ciel occupied a chair.

"Why are you here," Ciel began, "if you saved me, instead of taking my life." Harry looked at the boy's face. He could see the small fire reflected in the glassy black orb that was Ciel's eye. The other was still covered.

"Why do you think I'm here?" Harry replied, intrigued. The child had curious things to say, given the right opportunity, and Harry was in the mood to be amused.

Ciel hesitated. "I originally thought you were going to take me away." He looked to Harry for a response.

"Where?" Harry asked, eyes crinkling in amusement when Ciel huffed.

"It doesn't matter where," the young boy replied firmly, to which Harry grew quite impressed. It wasn't often he found someone who didn't care too much for the divine consequences of their actions. "I know who you are. You've mentioned that you're almost like the Grim Reaper." Another expectant look at Harry.

"Yes," Harry agreed, "almost." The boy shifted, becoming impatient. He looked piercingly at Harry, and would have kept on looking, had they not been interrupted by a knock.

"Enter," Sebastian called out, standing. A middle aged maid came in, holding out a sealed envelope.

"From the Queen, Young Master Phantomhive," she said primly, extending the letter out to the child.

Harry felt his eyebrows rise before glancing slyly at Sebastian, and considering himself. The Queen. The boy kept unusual company, Harry thought suspiciously.

Ciel hastily opened the letter, scowling with his teeth bared. "There's been another unusual death. He looked sparingly at Sebastian, and then glared hard at Harry. His look held as he uttered the words with meaning and inflection, " _We_ are needed."

: : : : : : : : : : : : Break : : : : : : : : : : : :

"She fell asleep," her husband wept, still in his night clothes. "She fell asleep like the rest of them, but just never woke up." Dirty white with light blue stripes, Harry mentally noted in distaste. Vernon Dursley died in a pair not unlike them. Harry remembered. A sense of obligation drove him to personally oversee the proceedings following his uncle's death. Harry felt guilty about the whole affair, really. He thought he should have felt worse than he did when he watched his uncle burn.

Ciel stood, impassive. Sebastian and Harry flanked him on either side, with Sebastian staring right above the newly widowed man's head, and Harry, looking off into space.

They entered the building, and while Ciel and Sebastian made a beeline for the deceased woman, it was Harry who decided to stay behind in the living area, looking at old family photos and small trinkets littering the scene.

After about an hour of Ciel hounding both the officers and the deceased woman's husband, the three proceeded back to the Phantomhive Manor.

Now that they were all warm and dry, with a new topic to mull over, (other than Harry being Master of Death), the study/library area that they were seated in earlier held a quiet companionable silence.

As far as Harry knew, there was no pattern to follow. All the victims belonged in different social circles, none of the physical features were similar, the familial head count of which they belonged to, prior to getting married, was also different.

Harry zoomed through the history Dor gave him on the current timeline he was occupying, while simultaneously rifling through information Mother Nature handed over, concerning the life lived by the unexplained victims and all their ancestors before them.

Harry thought back on each family history, and what part each victim's family played in the events on the past. He was well on his way, mentally connecting the dots of obscure surnames that had been lost to marriages and relocation, when a glaringly obvious detailed was linked to each of the victim's families.

Harry's eyes widened.

Each victim had a family member die in the mass murder committed during the year of 1348.

It was the time of which the Black Plague ran rampant, decimating fifty percent of the population. The country, united in their grief, looked for scapegoats. There was a small community of wives, practiced and gifted in their knowledge of herbs, who went around helping the sick and those in need. Sadly, their efforts were useless against the Black Death. The families of their past patients took to a mob, and proceeded to burn them at the stake in a huge city event, dubbing them "witches".

Harry knew it was untrue, knowing for a fact that wizards and witches did not exist in this universe, much like it did not exist in multiple others, but if his assumptions were correct, all the current victims had one thing in common: The families of the accused witches all wanted revenge.

Whoever was killing them in their sleep wanted to harness this negative energy, which took the convenient form of forgotten revenge.

Because if Harry learned one thing in all of his past lives' education, it was that the _true_ form of bitter revenge stemmed from one thing.

"Death," Harry breathed.

Ciel and Sebastian's eyes snapped to where the doctor was seated, barely catching the word he whispered.

Harry took a deep breath. "Me," he said lowly, "whoever is killing all these people knew it would bring them me." Ciel's eye narrowed in consideration, while Sebastian lips spread into a knowing grin. "They wanted to summon me. And they were successful."

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Please and Thank You.


	5. If I Should Die CH 4

**If I Should Die**

Summary: Fate was the enemy, and so was uncertainty. Harry knew this. Except Sebastian didn't feel like the enemy anymore. Sebastian felt like the inevitable. Slash.

Disclaimer: All rights reserved belong to J.K. Rowling (for the Harry Potter characters), Yana Toboso (for Kuroshitsuji characters), and to Mitch Albom (for borrowing Dor). The plot, however, is **mine**. I am not making money off of this. This is just fun.

Author's Note: I'll make this as short as possible. This fic is slash. I need a beta, (so excuse the grammatical errors), and plot suggestions, predictions, and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Updates are roughly once every two weeks (because college).

Warning: _grammatical errors._

 **Chapter 4:**

"I don't know," repeated Harry for the umpteenth time.

Ciel eyed him speculatively and Sebastian was looking at anywhere except at Harry.

"Funny," Ciel intoned, suspicious, "For one so old, I would assume you knew more than you do." Sebastian snorted.

Running blunt fingernails through his already distressed scalp, he raked them from hairline to the nape of his neck, frustrated.

He crossed his ankles. He picked at the lone little thread peeking out the seam of his trousers. He was fidgeting. He was nervous. He was fidgeting because he was nervous, and he was nervous because he was at a disadvantage.

It had been a while since he was at a disadvantage.

Harry couldn't decide whether or not he liked it.

"So what _do_ you know?" Ciel needled, pacing in front of his fireplace, "Do you remember your past? Is it someone from your past?"

Harry frowned, unamused. "It cannot be anyone from my past. There is absolutely no way for them to predictably seek me out in such a fashion, _assuming_ ," he stressed heavily, "that they even lived to be this old." He paused, considering. "And they have not." This conversation was pointless. They were dead. They were all dead. "It's been a little more than eighty centuries, young master," Harry breathed, suddenly weary, "Let the dead rest."

Harry felt Sebastian's cool gaze rest on him, chilly in their condescension, with what little empathy he held for the sentiment keeping it from cutting into him like frost.

In the silence, Ciel's disbelief was palpable. "But," he began again, "if you could think of anyone who would _want_ to even _try_ –"

"What is it that you want from me," Harry cut in, curtly. "What is it _precisely_ that you want from me, that you would _refuse_ to let this alone, young master Phantomhive?"

Ciel paused, considering, then glanced fleetingly at Sebastian. The butler smirked, amused.

"Perhaps," Ciel began, hesitant, "perhaps if you just… voiced out all the possible candidates," Harry made a noise in tired disbelief, "however improbable," Ciel's voice escalated over Harry's restless shuffling.

"What the young master is trying to convey to you," Sebastian interrupted with a wry tone, "without giving away any impression of his invested interest towards your… situation, is that he would like to know more about your… adventures."

The young master stifled a self-conscious cough. "I'm interested in his _situation_ , Sebastian, not his _person_." Harry looked at Ciel's reddening face.

"That is what I said, young master," Sebastian all but purred, "is it not?"

Silence greeted the butler's question, a clear invitation for Harry to either consent or reject the offer of sharing his story.

Harry stilled, seriously contemplating.

There were many reasons to hold his silence, all of which skimmed the forefront of his mind now. Maybe he didn't like the idea of speaking about it to someone so unfamiliar, especially if that someone was so… young. Maybe thinking about revisiting his first life's events pained him too much. Maybe unfurling the locked memories from their established location was much too tedious, and he'd rather just _not_ , for the sake of simple sin of sloth.

But then, why else would he be contemplating telling them to begin with?

Because maybe, sharing his story would prove that everything he did wasn't for naught. That maybe, even if all the people he knew had long since left him, someone, _anyone_ would, at the very least, appreciate that he had _tried._ And quite possibly, though Harry would like to refute it, he was lonely.

Harry sighed.

From an Occlumens's perspective, a mind was mapped out, much like a place of the person's choosing. Unsurprisingly, Harry constructed his own like Hogwarts. The shifting staircases and odd flittering rooms made for a convenient and safe storage for all his memorable and precious moments. Where he remembered the Room of Requirement to be, a small cupboard was found, somewhere in the recess of its vast, dark, bottomless abyss. There, he tucked a small worn box locked with all memories of his first life.

Harry rubbed at his neck. Suppose that if he agreed to telling his tale, he'd have to open Pandora's box all over again.

Something clinked unexpectedly in front of his face that made Harry blink.

"Tea, Master?" Sebastian asked, the cup already prepared.

"Yes, thanks," Harry murmured, distractedly.

As he lifted the lip of the cup towards him, he froze, immediately catching his error.

In his peripheral vision, he could see Ciel's singular gaze sharpen, and a little ways behind him, Sebastian wore a self-satisfied smirk.

"Master," Ciel echoed flatly. He pivoted slightly so as to see both Sebastian and Harry simultaneously. "Master," he repeated in the same tone.

Sebastian kept his silence, an air of malicious glee hovering around him like a companionable cloud, and Harry sighed.

"Sit, Ciel," Harry finally breathed warningly, "sit and listen either to my tale, or the current circumstance, but not both." Ciel held his gaze solidly, stubbornly. Like a child used to having his way, Harry mused, but not here; not today. There _was_ a Master in the room, yes, but it isn't him.

Ciel nodded stiffly, before cautiously lowering himself to the edge of the closest seat.

"Where would you like for me to begin?" Harry said, gazing into the flickering flames of the fireplace. The only source of warmth for Harry, currently.

Ciel hesitated before turning to his butler, who, surprisingly, had also made himself comfortable on a cushioned chair.

"The beginning," Ciel answered solidly.

"Yes," Harry replied impatiently, "but _who's_ beginning?"

Ciel's brow furrowed. "The start of… the start of what made you possible at all." He trailed off, unsure.

Harry understood, of course; the young master wanted to hear everything.

Harry sighed and asked for a maid. He would need more biscuits and tea for this, because he was already running low on his one cup, and the story hadn't even begun.

:::::::::::: Break ::::::::::::

Harry did not know what the hour was, but he knew he talked himself hoarse. Either because even after all this time, he still had something to say, or simply because he'd go off on an emotional tangent, it mattered not. He just simply… talked.

He knew he drank his fill in tea, then hot cocoa when he grew tired of that, then coffee when he grew tired of _that_.

He knew he consumed four scones and six biscottis.

He knew the quick five minute break Sebastian insisted they take, resulted in hurried slurped spaghetti on the young master's part, and a fond smile at the picture it made, from himself.

And after _all_ that, he supposed that he was allowed to feel a little tired, a little weary, and for the most part, Harry did feel this way.

But he had forgotten how _much_ of it he felt _._

He still felt the grief from the loss of Sirius and the sharp sting of Remus's death. The sadness still sat with him when he thought of Fred Weasley. The burden of guilt still settled on his shoulders when he thought of Dobby and Hedwig.

But nothing, not a single damn thing in all the horrors he's had to live, prepared him for the sheer, never ending, yawning abyss of agony, that reared itself when he thought of Ron and Hermione.

Looking back, Harry couldn't help but scoff at his (past) naivety whilst telling the story. Initially, he fought for the muggleborns. "For the greater good," his mentor had told him.

And after the war… it was worse. Halfbloods and muggleborns grossly outnumbered the purebloods, and whatever resentment the wizarding world held towards the Dark Lord was redirected to the small community of purebloods, regardless of whether or not they identified as dark.

It quickly escalated from furious glances in Diagon Alley, to storekeepers refusing to serve "their kind", until it ended in bloodshed.

What kind of world, Harry thought, would necessitate you to lie about who you are, just so you could _survive?_

"The one we live in," Ciel answered quietly with his steely gaze.

Harry looked up blearily, as if reminding himself that he left that world behind, only to come face to face with a child that knew _this_ world for what it actually _was_. He nodded, and cleared his throat again.

No pureblood could openly mourn their dead, for fear of a public execution. Their fallen loved ones, left to decay in stale air with memories that weren't allowed the chance to be acknowledged.

And it wasn't as if the ministry couldn't do much. They just didn't want to. "Justice as served by the people," they'd said.

The Weasleys might have been the only purebloods that weren't under fire. But even then, people sneered and pretended a deaf ear when they were reminded that the Weasleys, indeed were pureblood.

Harry tried staying out of it as best as he could, (and even in his current explanation, it all seemed so… sterile, clinical,) but eventually, such horrors led into his life anyway.

Eventually, it ended up reaching _him_.

"He was the first," Harry whispered, finally, shoulders drooping with the memory.

It didn't suit him, Sebastian, thought. Defeat did not suit Harry Potter.

Ciel and Sebastian hadn't had to ask _what_ first. The look on Harry's face said it all.

"He was a prat," Harry choked out vehemently, half with fury, half with tenderness. "He was snide, and he wasn't nice. He was a pointy sour _git,_ "Harry hissed, "and…" Harry paused, hands clenched. He exhaled. Looked around a bit, like he was lost or looking for someone.

Something in Sebastian's heart clenched.

"He was a lot of things. But he never made me choose." Harry looked back down. "He never made me choose between my friends and him, and that's good, I think." He paused, looking directly at Sebastian. "I would've picked my friends over him." He stopped, looking at his hands. "At least in the beginning."

There was a long pause of heavy silence. Ciel knew not to ask what happened next. They all knew that if they broke it, Harry wouldn't continue.

"They ended up making the choice for me," Harry whispered. "They didn't know we were…"

That you loved him. Sebastian blinked. The thought unsettled his stomach.

You're jealous, Sebastian's traitorous mind supplied, with the fact that Harry, (regardless of being the Master of Death), was still able to find joys in a hellish existence when Sebastian couldn't. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe it was a bit of both.

"That I was with him… like _that_." Harry swallowed, his long sooty lashes clenched tight against his chiseled cheeks. "And then they got angry," Harry rasped. He could see it now, the smoke scene playing out behind his eyelids, their anger fueled by the fury of betrayal.

Hermione crying or screaming, sometimes both, at him about how could you _forget,_ Harry, what he _did._ To me, to you, to _DUMBLEDORE?!_ The _students,_ Harry! They were all _children!_

But so were they.

So was _he._

And Ron had been oddly quiet, sort of stooped on his rather lanky frame.

He knew, or at least suspected, Harry thought. He'd always been a lot cleverer than he let on, especially when it came to things like this.

And because Hermione was so angry, even though Ron wasn't, not really, he had to go and pick her side over his because… well. She was his _wife_ , and Harry was their best _mate_ , and why can't everything just go back to the way things were, please? Just ignore the git, he wasn't anything but a good lay anyway, yeah? Ron had pleaded.

Harry didn't think he knew ire so strong that he could taste it, until that moment.

The problem was, Harry always picked _them_.

Whether "they" were the wizarding citizens that demanded his childhood in exchange for their peace of mind.

Or Dumbledore, in the countless number of times he let Harry down again, and again because of some rubbish about "the greater good" allowing for the rationalization of Harry's decades of suffering.

Or even Ron, who at his worst, would leave just because his ego had been ignored.

Or Hermione, when she just _refused_ to see any sense in anything that, (Merlin forbid), didn't fit into her sense of logic, the way that she did just then.

But really, when had anybody picked _him_?

Not because picking Harry meant saving the Wizarding World. Not because picking him saved their own backsides. Not because he had something to _give_ , DAMN IT ALL! but because he just _was._

When have they ever?

But all that aside, it didn't really bother him before, not really, because how could you _know_ the feeling that came with being picked just because, if it's never happened before?

And see, that was the clincher, wasn't it. It was just his luck, wasn't it, that _he_ was the first to see Harry, (even if it started out negatively), for _who_ he was, and not _what_. He was the first to talk to Harry, not because they agreed on a lot, (if they ever agreed on anything at all), but because he like that Harry's voice would get more quiet when they argued, or because Harry would smile in his boyish way, a sort of shy amusement, when he would think up of something clever, even if it was snide. Because Harry was just Harry. And that was all he wanted, apparently.

Peace. Harry thought, and a chance to choose. That was all he wanted. That was _it._ He didn't want everything to right themselves in some dastardly unrealistic fashion. He didn't want what he lost _back_. He just wanted the chance to have something _else._

 _He_ was something else.

And in the end, even that couldn't be given to him, no matter the grisly sacrifices he had to make. It wasn't enough.

It was never enough.

And maybe it was the unfairness of it all, sizzling under his skin after years of silence that made his magic lash out the way that it did.

But Harry saw white.

And then nothing at all.

"So you see," Harry said, his smile crooked and ugly on his face, "It is not possible that it would be anyone in my past life. They're all _dead_." He hissed the last word at Ciel's pale face, and at Sebastian's blank one.

Harry then stood and headed out of the library, planning on walking the stretch of the way back to his house, silently and slowly folding the memories back into his box, like a worn out love note from someone special in his past.

 **Read and Review. (This chapter was redone because there were some glaringly ugly errors, and I just had to redo it.)**


	6. If I Should Die CH 5

**If I Should Die**

Summary: Fate was the enemy, and so was uncertainty. Harry knew this. Except Sebastian didn't feel like the enemy anymore. Sebastian felt like the inevitable. Slash.

Disclaimer: All rights reserved belong to J.K. Rowling (for the Harry Potter characters), Yana Toboso (for Kuroshitsuji characters), and to Mitch Albom (for borrowing Dor). The plot, however, is **mine**. I am not making money off of this. This is just fun.

Author's Note: I'll make this as short as possible. This fic is slash. I need a beta, (so excuse the grammatical errors), and plot suggestions, predictions, and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Updates are roughly once every two weeks (because college).

 **ALL CHAPTERS HAVE BEEN SUCCESSFULLY EDITED (finally.)** Sorry for the wait, guys. It was half assed and won't happen again. Also, I apologize for the flood of emails you all probably got because I deleted and rearranged… and okay. Yeah. Sorry.

Warning: _grammatical errors._

 **Chapter 5:**

"You're the picture of perfect health," Harry intoned quietly, smiling at his current patient.

She was Harriet Truman, daughter of a printing merchant, not a mere ten minute's walk from his office. She was short, with curled strawberry blonde hair tucked in a wispy bun and a heart shaped face that was almost always in a lovely smile.

Of course, Harry thought, he only ever saw her every so often, and her cheery demeanor could be because he's caught sight of her at a good time.

"Oh, but doctor, are you quite sure?" Harry blinked, amused. Of course he was sure. He was a bloody _doctor._ Regardless of his limitless skill and knowledge in the healing arts, he would like to think that he'd be able to tell if someone was on the verge of _death_ , considering.

"I must admit that although I feel better now, I hadn't a few moments ago, and if you hadn't been there, oh! Perhaps," she looked up from under her lashes, "if you did a more intensive diagnosis, you'd find… something?"

Harry looked around the shop sheepishly.

On one wall, a floor to ceiling wooden shelf stood, neat and orderly with ink bottles, pens, and a few quills. Their shop sold all types of writing supplies, as well as design templates for shops or posters, made by hand by their residing master penman.

Where was her father? Wasn't she too young to be left unattended with a male?

"Doctor." She shifted closer, and Harry caught a whiff of some oil that smelled faintly of melons.

He hastily stepped away, bringing his hands behind his back in a clasp to subtly evade her twisting fingers that twitched towards his own.

"There's a festival that will be held here in the square." Harry gazed at her eager expression blankly.

"It's only but a fortnight away," she hinted, her chin raising slightly with her eyebrows. At what, Harry didn't know.

"Will you be going?" Her voice, Harry thought, confused, was bordering on exasperation.

"Er, yeah, I don't see why not," he replied. It would make for a decent scene to scope out the general public. Undoubtedly, the culprit of the recent deaths would be there, possibly picking out their next victim.

"And who will you be bringing?"

Oh.

Harry felt the heat creep up his neck. Even if he _were_ inclined to her… anatomy, he wouldn't bother asking her to go. Her name was _Harriet_ , for Crup's sake, and it felt too odd, addressing someone with a name he saw as his own.

"Erm…" Just in time, the bell hanging above the door dinged, swinging open to reveal a portly elderly man of high spirits.

"Doctor!" he greeted, nose ruddy from the cold, his smile warming his face as it spread, "I'm glad to see that you've cured my daughter of any illness she's managed to imagine this time around."

Harriet huffed somewhere behind him, and Harry could only give a relieved smile as Mr. Truman chuckled heartily.

"Father," Harriet hissed, mortified, "the Doctor was _just_ about to ask me to the festival."

Her father's laughter halted, his expression openly curious. "Were you, really?"

"Erm, no, I, ah – should actually be… just on my way back, so I'll just–," Harry's voice descended to a mumble in his attempt to exit the situation, his left hand running through the hairs on the nape of his neck.

Mr. Truman looked on, amused, as Harry inched towards, and out the door.

"Have a good day!" he bellowed merrily, drowning out Harriet's petulant groaning of how he ruined things _again._

Harry breathed out a sigh of absolute relief. That was an embarrassingly close call, Harry thought, cringing internally.

A hand clasped around his shoulder, and Harry pivoted immediately to slap it off.

"Oh," Harry intoned, looking briefly at Sebastian's politely surprised expression, "it's you."

"Indeed," he replied, smirking. "You might want to work on your being receptive to your new name. I've been calling for you for the past five minutes."

Sebastian watched Harry's thick, straight brows furrow appreciatively. His features weren't fine or doll like, and Sebastian rather liked that. Harry's face didn't give him the impression of fine china, like Ciel's did.

The only feature gracing the planes of his high cheekbones that could be mistaken for feminine were his large eyes with their lashes, maybe, and his pillow-like red lips. But even then, those two combined with his sharp jaw, strong chin, and wide forehead didn't make for a girly effect. Boyish, maybe mistaken for a bit young, yes, but not female.

"Which name were you calling me by?" Harry asked, interrupting his train of thought.

"Grim," Sebastian replied, pleased at Harry's slow grin.

"Right," Harry replied, bottle green eyes flashing with amusement, "My first name is Grim."

Sebastian barely contained himself from rolling his eyes. Honestly. Forgetting his _name._

"You're heading home?" Sebastian inquired.

"Yeah," Harry said, still smiling, "it's half past six, and I'm absolutely starved." His expression shifted to hesitant, and Sebastian immediately felt a spike in curiosity. "Would you like to join me for dinner?" Harry inquired softly.

Sebastian admitted that although he got no nutrition from eating physical foods, he sometimes did so just because he could. Admittedly, a skilled cook contributed to a positive experience.

Sebastian hummed, contemplating. If he agreed, it would serve as a decent opportunity in learning more about this new Master, grudging as he is to share _anything_ pertaining to his person.

He nodded, and they strolled in the direction Harry was originally headed, a companionable silence blanketing them both.

: : : : : : : : : : : : Break : : : : : : : : : : : :

"Whelp," Harry said lowly, finally managing to jimmy the lock open, "this is her." They were on the second floor of his building, his office just beneath them.

Sebastian looked around, smiling. It looked the exact opposite of Harry's demeanor. Where he was closed off, it was all open space. The only walls present, other than the general four of the building, were tucked in a corner of the flat with a curtain over a door-like opening. The lavatory, Sebastian guessed.

There was a sequence of large windows on every wall, barely leaving room for the four pillars holding up the roof. The porcelain claw foot tub was next to the odd curtained latrine, against the windows, and keeping it company was a matching porcelain farmhouse sink.

A little further down on that same wall, a fireplace/stove looking thing was nestled in the opposite corner of the john. The butcher block countertop space ran along the adjacent wall with two simple wooden seats positioned around it. One faced the windows, the other faced the length of the countertop, looking at the stove.

Sebastian noticed that everything sat just beneath the lip of the of the windows. All polished gleaming bookcases had no more than two shelves an inch away from the windowsill. Trunks on either side of the Harry's luxurious bed were also squat.

Except for the four pillars at each corner of the room, the stove, and lavatory, there was nothing taller than two and a half feet, give or take a few inches.

"Don't like closed spaces," Harry murmured self-consciously, undoing his clothes as he shuffled towards the kitchen. His tie was tossed carelessly on his bed, his tailcoat and vest chucked atop one of his trunks, and his shoes were toed off immediately.

Sebastian flashed back to an offhand comment Harry had made, not two days ago. Something about living with relatives in a tiny closet of a room.

Sebastian's upper lip curled. He didn't know why Harry brushed off such horrific happenstance the way that he did. Granted, there were worse things, but there should have been, at least, more of an emotional reaction than that.

They ate with little fanfare. Harry cooked pasta that was surprisingly scrumptious, (who knew he could cook?), and they each had a hefty slice of chocolate cake for dessert.

They did all this in relatively comfortable silence, and the longer they stayed in each other's company, the more aware Sebastian became of Harry's standing, in relation to himself.

There was an undeniable pull in three places that Sebastian could pin point. His mind was more inclined to notice things he would otherwise never care to, had it been anyone else.

There was a desire there, he was sure, in learning all of Harry's ways. A desire to please him by showing Harry his familiarity.

Aside from that, there was an emotional pull as well as a physical one. It was hard to untangle the two, but Sebastian had to regularly check himself, lest he brush up against Harry unconsciously.

He had reached for the pepper the same time Harry had, his Master's fingers grazing the back of his hand. Sebastian had stiffened, unused to the warmth that pooled in his stomach and chest, and Harry had sighed, not unhappily. Pleased, almost.

Sebastian knew he had to be careful, what with all these unknown factors coming into play, but he couldn't quite bring himself to blame them when he grew too reluctant to leave his Master's company later that night.

"You could stay," Harry had invited, yawning through his offer. "There's a blizzard that'll hit soon, and I know it's a ways away from Phantomhive Manor."

Sebastian stood silently, considering. "I'll conjure you a bed and everything," Harry continued, already in the process of summoning sleeping tops and bottoms and hygienic products. "How many pillows?" he inquired, finally glancing up at his guest.

Sebastian answered, "I'm good with the one," and couldn't help but contemplate what an odd position he was in, staying the night with a total stranger. His boss, almost.

But looking at the concentration woven through Harry's handsome features, he couldn't help but feel as if this entire event was rather serendipitous.

Wine, or divine pull be damned, Sebastian had never been good at resisting temptation; even when he didn't know what the temptation was for.


	7. If I Should Die CH 6

**If I Should Die**

Summary: Fate was the enemy, and so was uncertainty. Harry knew this. Except Sebastian didn't feel like the enemy anymore. Sebastian felt like the inevitable. Slash.

Disclaimer: All rights reserved belong to J.K. Rowling (for the Harry Potter characters), Yana Toboso (for Kuroshitsuji characters), and to Mitch Albom (for borrowing Dor). The plot, however, is **mine**. I am not making money off of this. This is just fun.

Author's Note: I'll make this as short as possible. This fic is slash. I need a beta, (so excuse the grammatical errors), and plot suggestions, predictions, and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Updates are roughly once every two weeks (hopefully). I have tried my hardest to update because I got a few new reviews in. So, thank you for that.

Warning: _grammatical errors._

 **Chapter 6:**

It was to be expected, Sebastian marveled, but even then, he wasn't any bit less surprised.

Sebastian closed his eyes once more, trying his hardest to heighten his auditory senses.

There was nothing to hear.

"What is it," Harry's raspy voice supplied, cracking through the silence.

He couldn't have been asleep, was Sebastian's lone incredulous thought. Sleeping humans breathed, moved, made noise, _something._ This man did none of those things. It reminded him of someone who, well, slept like death.

Sebastian paused, considering Harry's question, and smirked when he heard Harry huff. "You might as well owe up," he heard the young man mutter, "It isn't as if I haven't already pegged that you've thoughts of something suspicious." The latter remark forced a reluctant chuckle to escape Sebastian's lips.

"You're far from human," Sebastian finally admitted, after a pregnant pause. "Well," he remedied, "Perhaps I expected to see some sort of remnants of your humanity, considering you'd lived not too long ago."

Harry ran his hands though his hair, and hummed. "How do you figure?" he asked.

"You're silent," Sebastian answered.

"Dead silent." Harry continued, snorting in amusement even as Sebastian rolled his eyes at his juvenile reaction. Harry calmed, seriously thinking through the demon's comment. "Well," he started, "I don't quite know what to tell you. It isn't something I'm purposefully doing."

Harry heard, more than saw, Sebastian incline his head. Harry flung an arm over his eyes, while the other stayed resting on his abdomen.

He supposed that if he were to listen, Sebastian, too, wouldn't make much noise. But it made more sense for Sebastian, though, didn't it? He'd been dead for quite a while.

The thought made Harry pause.

Was Sebastian considered dead, being a demon? Was he ever even alive? Did one have to be _born_ in order to _live_ , or was Harry just being an enormous git, complicating matters the way that he always did?

"No." Sebastian replied, softly. Sadly, Harry thought, wistfully.

"No, what?" Harry replied. Surely, he couldn't read Harry's mind, now. Or could he? Because Sebastian, being a demon, _could_ be considered one of his minions, yeah? The thought made Harry grin like a loon.

"No, I don't think you're doing _any_ of this on purpose." Sebastian's tone made Harry pause, and for whatever inexplicable reason, made an odd sense of complacent fury roll through his person.

Doing _what_ , exactly? Harry's hands curled into fists.

It isn't as if he was ill prepared as he always was. His hands started shaking as pictures of his long since suppressed miserable childhood reared its monstrous head.

It wasn't as if he was trying to fight some force that was larger than himself, who, by the pissing _way_ , is a rather enormous deal, considering that he was a bloodletting _Master._

It isn't like there are hardly any of _them_ chosen over entire eons. He bared his teeth.

It wasn't as if he'd _asked_ for any of this – and Harry thoughts were screeching in his head, now, the emotions associated with each event like quicksand; easy to sink into, difficult to get out of. His fury and grief animalistic and wounded and… and… _hideous –_

It wasn't as if this time was just like the last time he had to cater and clean up after humanity's last fuck up, Master status or not.

It wasn't as if he was never ready for the tragedies that came with whatever task was appointed for him to fix.

It wasn't as if he ever had anything worth losing anyway. A flash of icy blonde, now, all angles and sharp cuts, and harsh words with harsher looks, but such soft… soft… hands and sentiment.

And suddenly, just as quickly as the fury came, it scattered, leaving Harry's stiffening form exhausted, and limp on the sheets.

"No," Harry agreed, "I don't suppose I'm doing _any_ of this on purpose."It was in moments like these that he felt as old as he actually was. When did it stop? When could he _rest_?

"Of course not, Master," Sebastian responded. Never, Harry thought, tears suddenly biting at his eyes maliciously, unexpectedly. He would never rest. And why was that?

Because his existence never failed to serve the "greater good" of humanity.

Like it had before, and like it was now.

Harry inhaled a shaky lungful of air.

Yes. It seemed that his existence served everyone's best interest these days.

Harry breathed out, his lungs stuttering, causing his breath to shudder. He screwed his eyes shut. Sleep now, he told himself, furious. Sleep now, damn you!

Like the snow falling outside, darkness descended, slowly at first, then all at once.

Everyone else's interest, yes. Except his own.

:::::::::::: Break ::::::::::::

It was the howling that startled him awake.

Whether it was the howling of the wind, or the howling of his grief, Harry couldn't tell.

He rubbed the heel of his palm into his eyes, exhausted. He was more exhausted than before he fell asleep, he reckoned. Blinking, he looked quietly around his humble abode.

The limited lamplight lining the streets outside, accompanying the brilliant white of the blizzard, painted his apartment a fairytale sort of stillness. The type of stillness that had you guessing whether it was reminiscent of peace, or the calm before the storm.

Everything was cast in a lazy soft glow, making it all look… prettier. Daintier. Even the young butler looked softer, somehow. "It's silent," the young man answered him.

Harry didn't understand Sebastian's latest obsession with silence.

The Master quirked his head. "The blizzard," Sebastian elaborated. "It's silent." Everything remained still, save for Harry shuffling around his heavy and warm covers.

"It's due to the wards," Harry said around a yawn. He blinked, his vision a bit bleary. He looked over at the young man. "Would you like for me to take them down?"

Sebastian paused, considering, then quickly shook his head. "It's like this, back where we're from." He smiled wistfully, darting a shy glance at Harry.

 _We_ , Harry picked out from Sebastian's speech, and his old weathered heart roared in delight. Where _we_ are _from._ A place to belong, and not belong alone.

"It's quiet, and it's still." Harry's interest piqued. "But it's different with you here. It's a different sort of quiet."

Feeling hesitant, Harry's hand twitched towards Sebastian's general direction. He settled for clasping them around his knees, now curled in front of his form. "Would you mind telling me what it's like?" Harry asked instead, voice echoing the same shyness Sebastian demonstrated.

It was odd, Harry thought, having someone who was wholly on his side, who could teach him a thing or two about something that was _his_. Chaos was brilliant, yeah, but it wasn't the same, was it? What little Control Harry wielded didn't belong to him, not really; it was all borrowed.

Sebastian nodded, half smiling.

Yeah, Harry lamented, it was definitely different. Better.

"You'd best get some rest," Sebastian told him, instead. Harry started to protest, and Sebastian's outstretched arm stopped him. "I'll be right here, and so will your explanation." Harry didn't know why that eased him. Maybe it was because he liked explanations, and the promise of some figure looking out for him might quell his recent nightmares – _memories_ , his subconscious hissed.

Harry shifted, still unsure. It was then that Sebastian rose, elegant and masculine, even in his silken sleeping garments that Harry conjured. He walked leisurely to where Harry was lying now, and sat by his head. "You'd best get some rest," Sebastian repeated, and started running his fingers through Harry's locks.

It wasn't that Harry consented to sleep, exactly, and yeah, he was coerced, but he found that he didn't really have a choice. Not with Sebastian's fingers and scent cloaking him something warm, or his spoken promises of a land where Harry belonged, or maybe it was the soft lullaby that Harry wouldn't be able to remember in the coming morning.

Maybe it was all of these.

But maybe, it was none of them. Maybe it was just because it was Sebastian.

And with that last thought, Harry plunged into sleep, still undecided on whether or not that was a good thing, or a bad one.

 **Read and REVIEW. The frequency of ALL coming chapters will be updated according to reviews.**


	8. If I Should Die CH 7

**If I Should Die**

Disclaimer: All rights reserved belong to J.K. Rowling (for the Harry Potter characters), Yana Toboso (for Kuroshitsuji characters), and to Mitch  
Albom (for borrowing Dor). The plot, however, is mine. I am not making money off of this. This is just for fun.

Author's Note: I'll make this as short as possible. This fic is slash. I need a beta, (so excuse the grammatical errors), and plot suggestions, predictions, and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Updates are roughly once every two weeks (or three weeks). I have tried my absolute hardest to update because I got a few new reviews in. So, thank you for that.

Warning: Grammatical errors, galore! (I'll let y'all know if there's explicit content, no worries.)

 **Chapter 7**

Harry, in his half aware state, associated people's moods and tones with tangible objects. The persons currently speaking, for example could easily be identified as Granite and Snake.

"I was under the impression that this business does not concern your person." See, that one was Granite. Cold and impersonal, but above all, firm.

"I am concerned because you work for _me_." And that one's the snake. Harry didn't know what other way to describe the person's speech pattern, other than furious hissing.

"I work for him _first_." Their mood had taken a hard and frosty undertone.

"That's not what the contract initially stated." More furious hissing.

"That _contract_ is a living, breathing, magical object that _He_ controls, not you." A tens pause. "Do not play master here. You will lose. _Sorely_."

Harry willed himself to stir. "Whazzgoinon?" He sat up, body heavy, mind muddled. "Wazzaproblem?"

Prying his eyes open, and wincing at the sudden sunshine coming in from all his windows, Harry visibly saw two figures soften their stance.

"Nothing," a deep baritone replied. Sebastian, a faraway voice whispered fondly to him. Harry turned his attention to the smaller silhouette. "Nothing," it echoed, grudgingly.

Harry flopped back down on his bed, stretching. Once all joints let out a satisfying pop, he slowly swung his feet over the edge of his mattress, his vision coming into focus.

The smaller blob from earlier proved to be the Young Master Phantomhive, as Harry's eyes were drawn to his form after the child's breath caught somewhere in his chest.

"Yes?" Harry asked, wide green eyes blinking. The juvenile was turning an odd shade of vermillion, and Harry looked to Sebastian's smirking face in question. "What?" He repeated.

Ciel coughed, glancing around. "This isn't a large place," he replied, deflecting the question poorly. Harry's eyebrow's went up.

"I've only got myself," he hummed, amused.

"Except for last night, apparently," was the dry remark that startled Harry into full awareness. Harry jerked, noticing that his jammies, although of quality material, were threadbare and clung to his slim hips and form.

Harry quickly glanced over at Sebastian, who had already changed into yesterday's uniform, (did he even have any other uniform?), and colored. "It isn't what it looks like," he blurted, embarrassed.

"I'm sure," the young master replied. Although his tone remained slightly cool, the tension around his one visible eye eased. Harry's eyebrows rose again, his gaze darting between Ciel and Sebastian in silent question.

"Absolutely not," the butler replied drily. Ciel turned incredulously at Harry, his expression mirroring that of horror. "He's a _child_." The young master flushed, clearly insulted but didn't disagree.

"Oh," was Harry's intelligent answer, and he coughed discreetly into his hand. "Well. What brings you to this side of town, then?" He asked, sarcastic.

Ciel opened his mouth to reply, then promptly snapped it shut with a click. When Harry turned to Sebastian for answers, the young man simply stared blankly back, silent.

He huffed. "If neither of you are feeling very forthcoming with answers, I suppose we can all use some morning tea and breakfast, then."

Harry shuffled to the kitchen stiffly, still slightly groggy, the heel of his left hand rubbing his left eye.

"They're spectacular," Ciel blurted out from somewhere behind him.

"What are?" Harry yawned, back still turned, fixing up some coffee and pastries with a wave of his hand.

Wandless, Sebastian's mind supplied, surprised that he hadn't noticed the night before. Must've been the wine, he thought.

"I haven't even provided food yet, so it can't be that," Harry continued placidly, starting up his small stove for what Sebastian guessed were eggs and toast.

Beside him, Ciel colored, the very picture of a juvenile lost and completely out of his own depth. "They're just very green," the child muttered under his breath, head bowed but back straight, stiff.

"Oh," A curious pause. "They were my mum's. Haven't really changed in color, much." He heard more than he saw Harry pour a glass of milk, (Hah! Milk! For that Phantomhive brat, Sebastian was sure). "They're odd aren't they? Bottle green. Don't see that color often, at least not in people's irises. I would much rather prefer that spring green, myself."

"Why?" Ciel asked, scandalized. Harry had turned now, and so both he and the young master were able to see the sly smile sneaking out from the side of his lips.

"They're normal," he replied, almost ironically. It was a regular thing he said frequently, Sebastian reckoned, and not just in this life. There was an echo of age woven into the phrase, almost like a crumpled old paper that's been folded and refolded open and closed for a millions of millennia.

"But why would you want something _normal_ , when you can be _extraordinary_?" Ciel asked, his eyes glinting hungrily.

Their Harry stilled, ("'Their Harry', now, is it?" his traitorous mind supplied), and turned his body and attention fully towards their direction. His smile was both sad and beautiful. "You sound like – " He stilled, and immediately faced the food again. "Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. You're both free to take whatever seat is available."

And just like that, the conversation was through.

:::::::::: Break ::::::::::

The fairy floss was rather delicious, Harry had to admit. It was foolish of him, Harry thought, feeling rather embarrassed, to have expected some sort of fairy to come with the sweet treat.

Maybe, it was because he was a bit biased, having encountered a product which was quite similar before, so his expectations were rather unrealistic. It wasn't unlike the actual Cloud Candy the Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes used to sell, several lifetimes ago. Though, of course, theirs came with charmed edible cherubs flying around the Cloud Candy, and the one Harry was consuming didn't come with any sort of fairies.

He was disappointed, and Harry chided himself in his mistake of obsessively comparing different aspects of whatever lifetime he was in, to the first one he left behind.

"There's over hundreds of individuals here, making our chances slim of finding our culprit," a muffled voice grumbled, "And besides. They all avoid us like we're diseased. Even if this elusive villain was here, he'd have the good sense to avoid us, by now."

Upon having had his thoughts cut short, Harry glanced at Ciel from the corner of his eye, slightly miffed. Honestly, Harry understood Ciel's exasperation. Really, he did. It wasn't that he didn't _get_ it. It was that Harry couldn't quite bring himself to… _care_. The young master's impatience was due to his age, but even that excuse only extended themselves so far, especially with the work Harry was primarily doing at the moment, which, honestly, was quite taxing.

"Such silence coming from you is quite admirable," Sebastian intoned sarcastically from somewhere behind him, "Really, are you quite sure you're alright, young master? Because you aren't usually so quiet."

Harry almost snorted out a laugh, and his reaction brought a ghost of a smile to the butler's face, though Ciel looked far from amused.

"And _you_ ," Ciel was hissing once again, "I've never heard you so vocal in my life." He sounded quite scandalized, in Harry's opinion, and if the situation was any less serious than it was, he would have found himself amused.

"Yes, well," Sebastian concluded, leaving his sentence unfinished stilling.

Ciel noticed immediately that something was wrong. His demon guide had turned into a statue, and sure enough, the doctor too was stiff around the shoulders.

"What is it?" Ciel asked sternly, noticing the odd shift as all three of them stood rooted to their current spot in the festival. He looked around with his critical human eye. Nothing seemed too out of the ordinary.

Confetti continued to fall around them, some floating to settle on Harry's hair like odd glittering jewels, forming a crown, some tried getting in the young master's eyes, forcing him to blink, and a few settled on Sebastian's shoulder. People came and went, shrieking in that awful way that they did. Vendors were still hollering.

So what was it then?

 _Settle down_ , an unfamiliar voice in his head murmured soothingly, and Ciel immediately froze himself, eyes darting towards Sebastian, frightened. His butler's eyes were trained on Harry, and when Ciel followed his gaze, the Doctor gave the him an affirmative nod as if telling him yes, he was the foreign intrusive voice currently occupying his skull.

Ciel's eyes narrowed into slits, as Harry rolled his eyes. _I'm not digging through anything,_ Harry intoned, impatient. His irritation felt like an itch in his skull, Ciel reflected. _If I was, you'd have relived your memories with me, and we would view them together._ Ciel didn't know how to feel about that exactly, but he supposed it was better than his earlier suspicion.

It still didn't answer his questions as to what exactly it was that they were watching out for, but before he could extend these thought towards Harry, he got his answer soon enough.

With his eyes trained on Harry's handsome features, he caught a shadowy imprint on everyone's movement. Sort of like black murky smoke trailing after all the men, women, and children.

Ciel itched to swivel his head to stare straight at whatever it was, but Harry piercing gaze held him still. _Don't_ , the Doctor whispered, _If you look at it dead on, you won't see it at all. Wait._

So Ciel did just that, standing stock still. The longer he stood there with his two companions, the more he began to notice how strange it was that no one immediately saw them. Before, they gave them a wide berth, as if they were aware of their presence, and thought it something to be avoided. But now… Now it seemed like they couldn't see them _at all._

Still, Harry held his gaze, and it was only because of this that Ciel managed to withstand the crippling weight of terror that slowly descended upon his frame. Was it on him too? Was that filthy weighty foul presence on him too?!

 _Wait,_ Harry whispered again, mentally expanding his presence. He knew from experience with Mother Nature that doing so would feel a bit like a mental hug, if there was even such a thing, and sure enough, panic started to ebb from the edges of the young master's visible eye.

Ciel felt his body distantly now, and he would be terrified if he was attached to it more than he was, but at this point, he knew that the Doctor was doing something, easing something in him that allowed him this miniscule amount of peace. In his state of tranquility, he couldn't help but wonder how beautiful death was, if it was something like this. And if it was something like this, would he have lived his life differently? It was a weighty thought, but all the weight he should have felt was left to this mortal body.

This state he was in, wasn't mortal, not really. He didn't know what it was, though he had his suspicions. Was this how the Doctor saved him? These thoughts were running rampart in his mind, and sometimes he went off on a tangent that was nasty, horrible, inhumane…

And still, Harry held his gaze, not unlike the way someone held a friend's hand.

With a rush of clarity, Ciel landed heavily back into his body, and with a gust of a cough, he looked around wildly, getting reacquainted with the remnants of the high of his terror.

"We need to leave," Sebastian's voice said cuttingly, grabbing him by the elbow, though his concerned eyes were trained on Harry's face. "Something has arrived."

Harry's back was ramrod straight, though his movements were placid and practiced. He hummed in agreement. "Yes. And it knows we're here."

 **READ AND REVIEW PLEASE. I answer all questions, and any form of feedback is appreciated.** Top of Form


	9. If I Should Die CH 8

**If I Should Die**

Disclaimer: All rights reserved belong to J.K. Rowling (for the Harry Potter characters), Yana Toboso (for Kuroshitsuji characters), and to Mitch  
Albom (for borrowing Dor). The plot, however, is mine. I am not making money off of this. This is just for fun.

Author's Note: I'll make this as short as possible. This fic is slash. I need a beta, (so excuse the grammatical errors), and plot suggestions, predictions, and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Updates are roughly once every two weeks (or three weeks).

I have exactly a day between Summer I and Summer II, (I just finished a grueling final exam that slaughtered my GPA), and because y'all gave such sublime reviews, I wanted to reciprocate the love. Much appreciation.

Warning: Grammatical errors, galore! (I'll let you guys know if there's explicit content, no worries.)

 **Chapter 8**

A mad dash, however fast, from the fair wasn't enough, Harry knew, to throw their pursuer off their scent. So clutching Sebastian's offered elbow and Ciel's swaying shoulder, Harry breathed out a sigh before whisking them away magically.

It wasn't anything like apparating, Harry knew. Apparition felt like a tug at the navel, which, more often than not, resulted in the unpracticed party to throw up shortly after the landing. Their way of travel, Folding, was a bit like squeezing your eyes shut really hard, seeing a few stars as the temperature dropped to the edge of _almost_ painful, only to open your eyes and find that you've already arrived at your destination.

When their limbs were free of the confines from Folding, Harry looked towards his two companions, noting Sebastian's unruffled demeanor, (he moved about like this all the time, Harry was willing to bet), and Ciel's confused cough.

"Are both of you alright?" Harry asked, his eyes trained on the young master.

"Quite," was the reply he received from the butler, and as Harry suspected, nothing from Ciel. "I'll have tea and hot drinks prepared for us, if you'd like to stay a while before departing." Harry nodded distractedly, mentally sifting through the past events in detail.

Something wasn't adding up.

Sebastian came in, not a few minutes later, a tray in both hands. The murmurings between Sebastian and Ciel were muffled to Harry's ears as his thoughts were elsewhere, combing through whatever files Mother Nature and Dor gave him of the events on this time period.

They, whoever they were, _knew_ that they were summoning Harry with the deliberate deaths that took place. There were only a few ways to summon the Master of Death, all of which weren't even slightly well known, and some of which needed fewer casualties than the practice they used. But nonetheless, they chose this particular method anyway, regardless of the collateral damage.

It was glaringly obvious to say that they didn't just want to _chat_ with Harry.

But was their main goal ridding lives just a means to ultimately bring about Chaos, and having Harry summoned was just another tick off on their checklist, or was their summoning of him the end game?

Harry twirled the soup spoon that had somehow made its way to his fingers, idly.

It wasn't until he caught sight the steam coming from the offered tea in front of him did his shoulders begin to relax, and his mind start to wander to more mundane things.

Milk in tea, or no milk in tea… I used to take milk in tea, although _he_ never did, Harry thought, swirling his soup spoon – _he_ would have been horrified – in his not-quite-yet-ready beverage.

The slurping of hot milk brought Harry out of his thoughts, and out of the corner of his eye, he watched the ministrations of the young master seated somewhat comfortably in a bundle of fleece blankets. It had been a good minute since Ciel had spoken after their most mad exit from the festival, and Harry would be lying if he said he wasn't a smidgen worried.

With his alternate gaze, Harry saw that Ciel was mentally present, if not a little shaken, and that the child's heart rate had since gone down. Even with these small mercies, Harry couldn't help but feel an irritating twinge of sympathy for Ciel's somewhat jarring return to his own consciousness, resulting in the child experiencing the aftershock of a trauma he wasn't present for.

Ciel's visible eye was staring blankly past the rim of his hot cocoa, and if the steam was anything to go by, it was a lot hotter than the teen was letting on. If he kept up the pace that he was at, Harry thought to himself drily, he'd injure himself something inconvenient.

Sebastian coughed, and Harry quickly glanced away, somewhat embarrassed that he cared enough about Sebastian's opinion to pretend that he hadn't been caught worrying about something that the demon probably deemed extremely beneath him.

"Master," Sebastian intoned, as Hary cast Ciel an apprehensive look. They both usually turned when the butler called them out by that particular title, and the lack of reaction from the young master had Harry concerned.

Ciel slowly dragged his gaze up – his head felt so heavy. Why did it feel so heavy? – and towards the Doctor, feeling his needle sharp gaze on his self, and raised an eyebrow as if asking, 'What?'

"Master," Sebastian called out a second time, and Harry whipped his gaze towards the young man who was watching him placidly. Harry hummed in question, prompting the butler to continue, picking up his previous activity of swirling the forbidden spoon in his tea. "How are you fairing?"

Harry's head jerked up without his consent, surprise yanking him out of his mundane ministrations, and he cocked his head at Sebastian's question.

How was he fairing? Harry pondered the inquiry, blankly catching the motion of his forefinger and thumb rubbing tiny mechanical circles on his skin, soothing his thoughts into something less than a jumble.

Chaos had once told him, "Pin habitual motions to productive practice. You'll discover ease in the mundane things, and with your responsibility, you can't afford the mistakes of a cluttered mind." He was, as he's always ever been, right about these things, Harry thought, distracted.

"I'm…" Harry started, lips firming in concentration, "fairing," he finished lamely. Ciel snorted softly, no doubt amused at his half-baked answer. "It was just," Harry elaborated hesitantly, "different than what I remembered." Sebastian looked on encouragingly. "Being mortal," Harry clarified, catching the glance Ciel threw his way.

Of course it would be different. It had been a good while, hadn't it? A few millennia?

But even so, he didn't remember mortal fear feeling that way, Harry mused shortly, huffing at the ceiling as he tossed his head back in exasperation. And he should know, shouldn't he? He was the bleeding Master of Death, and that was the most abundant feeling mortals carried over to his person.

But then, being in Ciel's head made for a rather… _foreign_ experience. And what with the abrupt way that the evening ended, it wasn't until now that Harry had the luxury of combing through his thoughts, however fleetingly, on the events that transpired.

How Ciel _felt_ about things, it just wasn't normal. And yes, yes, he should be the last person to judge, shouldn't he? It wasn't like he was the poster child for "typical", himself.

Harry felt like he was missing something, knew it, even.

Harry returned his gaze to the boy, exhausted, by the looks of his slumped form, and couldn't help but worry. If it turned out that this adolescent really was part of the whole mess that called him to this timeline, it would prove to be a problem.

Harry had already extended Ciel's existence an extra six months, (five months and three weeks, now), and he couldn't terminate it because the magical contract had already been drawn up.

The only person that was able to do that was Chaos, and not before he absolutely incinerated the present timeline. (Something with the fine print about wasted Time converting to Chaotic Energy that isn't to be messed with, or some such nonsense. He really should familiarize himself with these details. They could kill… well, not him, but everyone else, for certain. Then all the Masters would be tits over arse in trouble with the Great Father, now wouldn't they?)

One child isn't worth all that, or at the very least, he shouldn't be. The young man yawned and turned his eye towards Harry, the very picture of innocence.

It rubbed something suspicious in Harry's gizzard.

Well, Harry thought, steel all over, even if the young master was brewing all that trouble, Harry would eliminate him, plain and simple. For all the affections that Harry held for humanity, it didn't extend so far that it could be specified to individuals.

It was the whispered, "Potter," that had his head jerking up in chilled surprise. Sebastian too, was shocked, his body curled aggressively, ready for an attack. Harry hadn't told anyone that name. Not anyone mortal. Even on the day he told his tale, he refrained from using that name. Everyone that knew him by that proper noun was dead, and all the rest that weren't, were Masters or Entities.

Harry's Alternate Gaze made itself known, broadening Harry's vision to a full 360 degrees and sharpening dangerously at the thing that had the misfortune of catching his attention.

The young master.

"What." Harry hissed through his teeth.

"That's your last name, isn't," the boy rasped out, his breath a breeze in the gathering storm clouds of Harry's defensive fury, "Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived." Ciel didn't say much else after that.

Well he couldn't, Sebastian thought, he doubted anyone could, really, given the situation. His body propelled forward to throw himself in between the boy and his Master's magic. Harry's power, fueled by something so close to Chaos, Sebastian had to look away, was holding up the young master by his throat, his feet dangling.

: : : : : : : : : : Break : : : : : : : : : :

Harry wasn't upset. He wasn't mad. He was _in_ _Control_.

The thing was so very small.

Harry knew all it took would be a passing thought.

"You need him alive."

Not by much.

"You drew up the contract."

He'd risk the consequences.

"You need to know _how_ and _why_ he knew to call you that."

This… voice was right, Harry hated to admit.

It whimpered.

Good. It needs to hurt.

"Let him up."

In a bit.

"Let him up, NOW."

And so his restraint was once again exercised, (as it always was in these situations, because it served someone else, everyone _else_ , EXCEPT HIMSELF. "For the greater good", eh, Dumbledor?), and the waste of air and space flew to the floor instead.

"That took a lot of strength."

If he was actually strong, he'd be able to bear not knowing the how's and the why's.

He was weak in this aspect, Harry knew.

"Master."

Not right now. Not right now.

"Master."

NOTRIGHTNOW. NOTRIGHTNOW. NOTRIGHTNOW. NOTRIGHTNO-

"You need to see his eyes, Master. _"_

Something was turning his head. But they didn't need to. Harry could see everything right now. From all sides.

Everything was coming for him at all sides.

"His _eyes,_ Master. _LOOK._ "

This person was pleading now.

Harry hated whinging.

So Harry looked and immediately wished he didn't.

Molten mercury.

Harry didn't need to breathe, yet his breath hitched.

All he saw was _silver_.

: : : : : : : : : : Break : : : : : : : : : :

The little boy was fast becoming too much trouble to keep around, Sebastian mused, irritated. If it weren't for the fact that his responsibility to his Master meant helping him achieve his ends, Sebastian would've let the juvenile's neck snap clean in half.

But now, some odd else was happening, all because the child's eye decided to suddenly switch shades.

Ciel's mouth opened, and although it stayed open, his lips didn't move to form the words he was speaking.

"Harry Potter," the deep echo purred, "it has been long, hasn't it."

In hindsight, from all the things Sebastian's seen, this wasn't the most unusual, and he figured the same for his Master.

But upon turning to look at Harry, he was worried at his suddenly blank face.

"Do you know it?" Sebastian voiced flatly, only mildly interested.

Harry said nothing.

From the corner of his eye, Sebastian could see that the young master's mouth was still open, and whispers were coming from within, twisting together like little braids of baited breath before echoing, "Scared, Potter?"

Upon seeing Harry's lips move, Sebastian's ear strained just enough to hear the breeze of an answer of which his Master blew a reply.

"You wish."

 **READ AND REVIEW PLEASE. I answer all questions, and any form of feedback is appreciated.**


	10. If I Should Die CH 9

**If I Should Die**

Disclaimer: All rights reserved belong to J.K. Rowling (for the Harry Potter characters), Yana Toboso (for Kuroshitsuji characters), and to Mitch  
Albom (for borrowing Dor). The plot, however, is mine. I am not making money off of this. This is just for fun.

Author's Note: I'll make this as short as possible. This fic is slash. I need a beta, (so excuse the grammatical errors), and plot suggestions, predictions, and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Updates are roughly once every two weeks (or three weeks… probably three weeks, although lately they've been every two weeks).

You readers have been so kind. I'm trying my absolute best to balance my grueling Engineering major (with a Physics minor), and make sure that my fanfiction writing is still moving along without trouble. You reward me with reviews, I reciprocate with updates.

Warning: GRAMMATICALLY FLAWED.

 _Flashback._ Present.

 **Chapter 9**

For as long as Harry could remember, the only upside to his prolonged existence were his abilities, and although he was no Hermione, he knew enough to be grateful for them, due to the dangers of his work.

Harry knew that they were present, not for him to enjoy, but to be practiced. And suppose, he understood. Really he did. The perils of an average day to him were astounding, and unfortunately, he could use all the advantages he could get. Ghouls, the Undead, summonings, demons, deranged individuals parading around as serial killers, (only to turn out to be aspiring necromancers), Harry had seen them all.

But even through the thick of his responsibilities and the weight of realizations with which no human mind could possibly comprehend or carry, he enjoyed his abilities. It was like getting to know his body, mind, and magic all over again – trying to find his limit, only to discover that he hadn't any, or at least any that he was aware of. Yes, his existence was long, but his abilities helped with making him feel what he actually _was;_ Infinite.

And it was astounding that such a mundane event such as this, something that shouldn't even have touched him at all, made him feel for the first time, that he wanted to rid himself of it all.

His Alternate Gaze, Harry mused to himself as he looked to the far wall just behind Ciel's head, had to be the first to go. But alas! He couldn't just switch it off. He could merely enhance it, or turn it down a bit, maybe even use an inanimate object to distract others from noticing it too much, (i.e. his NeverWeather Lenses), but there was no such thing as a pause button.

There was no rest to be had from the painful supernatural reality that was shoved ruthlessly towards Harry's unready mind.

His ever stuttering, weary heart.

Because even with him looking away, Harry could still distinctly see _his_ harsh features occluding the young master's physical attributes completely and absolutely. He even looked an entire head taller.

"You're him, I presume." Sebastian's inquiry sounded fuzzy in the background of Harry's awareness. They'd taken a backseat to the spectacle that were his current thoughts and feelings that's decided to take the wheel for now – hejustwasn'tready – and there was very little else around him that hadn't blurred itself into white noise.

As far as Harry's vision (and all other atoms of his bloody being) were concerned, Ciel wasn't even there at all.

 _He_ was.

And Harry wasn't ready.

He just. Wasn't. Ready.

But when had he ever been, really? And was it actually _alright_ for his weak, shit self – you don't deserve him, you never did – to finally feel a little bit of relief? Was his undeserving self – you should've done something then, anything – _really_ allowed to feel that little pinch of longing at the center of his heart, the odd twist in the area behind his bellybutton, much like being tugged along by a portkey, because surely he _must have_ _been_ _transported_ to some _other_ dimension, some other beautiful, _lovely_ place where there existed –

"Draco Malfoy."

Harry didn't know what business he had, whispering the words so reverently, so sweetly, the way that he did then.

But what could be done about it, if he had already done it.

And so Draco was turning his head now, the way that he did those years ago; his fringe first – he'd left it loose towards the end, didn't he? – with his eyebrows drawn low over his furious eyes – they always did look a little angry, even when he felt absolute peace – and HARRY POTTER YOU HAD BETTER NOT LOOK BACK AT–

But of course he had already done it.

And he was just as handsome as Harry remembered.

More, maybe.

Absence had a funny way of going about, messing with your memories. Absence left them altered, filtered through some hazy lens that tricked your gut into believing that the person you remembered in your head was the same one you left behind, the same one Harry was looking at now.

Through that very same haze, Harry felt, more than saw, something that both set him ablaze and left drowning in arctic ice.

He's smiling, Harry thought.

It looked worn down and weary, not much different from the way Harry was feeling now, but it was there, that slightly lopsided involuntary tug of the lips that Draco hated showing off because it wasn't as symmetrical as his smirk, and it was aimed straight at Harry.

Harry's heart clenched because it had been so long, so long since someone had looked at him in the manner that Draco was doing now.

Those stormy eyes that contained a whole world of hurt, a lifetime's worth of sorrow, and more than a million letters' worth of unsaid words, weren't trained on the Master of Death. They weren't locked on the Boy-Who-Lived. They weren't holding the gaze of James's or Lily's son.

They were looking at Harry.

Just Harry.

: : : : : : : : : : Break : : : : : : : : : :

This was _wonderful._

It was, _really_.

Heart sick Grim Reaper over here, had once again reunited with his lost love of a billion years in the form of a child, and isn't that _nice_? His Master could now be aptly classified as a certified pedophile.

How utterly saccharine, it absolutely melted his ancient demonic bones into molasses horse manure.

It was so _nice_ , that Sebastian could hardly control his good stomach from graciously emptying a _nice_ belly full of upchuck onto the marble floors of the Phantomhive Manor.

They were lucky that he only ate souls. He couldn't cough them up, lest he'd want to risk running this reality down with the undead souls whose contracts he's collected. But he wouldn't do that because then he'd be starving, and he'd have to feed.

Maybe on that Phantomhive swine.

Well, Sebastian mused, eyes roaming the hazy form of the specter disdainfully, that mightn't be such a bad idea after all. It'd rid themselves the trouble that was Draco Dogshit Malfoy.

Sebastian was man enough to admit to himself that he might've embellished the name a tad.

Sebastian coughed, bringing himself out of his reverie. "Master, I believe that questions are in order," he said curtly, hands behind his back. Because as much as he wanted to reach over and just flick the child's neck into an unusual position, thus ridding themselves of this possessed menace, he knew what today's main objective was. Identify the threat. Exterminate it. And if they had time to spare, possess Ciel's Contract, and devour his soul for the sake of Sebastian's ever growing appetite.

Never let it be said, the butler thought to himself with wry amusement, that Sebastian Michaelis was a demon of bad breeding and loyalty.

Because yes, he felt the way that he did towards the unwanted third person in the room, but he just couldn't quite bring himself to obliterate the light that had been missing from his Master's eyes, divine mission be damned.

Sebastian wasn't getting soft; he was just being sensible.

Which, admittedly, for a demon, meant the same thing.

: : : : : : : : : : Break : : : : : : : : : :

They'd been sitting in silence for a little over an hour now. Sebastian stilling into something like a statue looking into the fireplace, while Draco and Harry were seated cross legged on the floor, facing each other.

Sebastian had kept his cold demeanor towards Harry the second they entered the Phantomhive library, and although Harry had half a mind to ask him why, the other half wasn't sure if he was quite ready for the answer the young man would give.

So instead of having to face the hot burn of accusations he'd undoubtedly see in the deep garnet eyes, he situated himself across the shade of silver that had left him intimately frozen for years.

Harry was not the one to break the silence.

"I don't know whether I should congratulate you, or if I should be as horrified as you seem to be," Draco initiated, words slicing through the steadily growing silence.

"On?" Harry prompted, still unsure of himself and the words that might come flying out, should he let them.

"Look at yourself, Harry," Draco said, imploringly, expression unreadable as they roamed Harry's face. "I can hardly recognize you," he finished simply, eyes pained.

Draco's words hurt in ways that Harry couldn't remember ever feeling. What, exactly, was so different about his appearance that Draco seemed so bothered by it?

Sebastian watched Harry turn his hands over in his lap and examine them out of the corner of his eye. He could hardly control his tongue. The Master of Death, brought low to a level of concern by some undead abomination. He didn't know who held most of his ire; the immortal being who ought to be beyond such petty concerns like that of a past lover, or the ghost of a memory come to life for the sole reason of making everything more complicated.

"I hardly think I look that different," Harry rasped out hesitantly, "I'm still… Harry." The 'your Harry,' although left unsaid, was very clearly sent and received. .

And indeed, Harry didn't feel much different, abilities aside. He thought he looked quite regular, if not a bit older than Draco might've remembered him, but still. He figured some semblance of sameness stayed.

It was then that Sebastian cleared his throat, seemingly to say something, looking both parts smug and irritated. Smug because he knew something the other two did not, and irritated because Casper couldn't seem to help but look down his nose at the demon. The young butler shot the specter a glare upon noticing the dismissive sneer the blond threw his way, but otherwise kept his eyes centered on Harry. "He's still a soul, Master. However unnaturally kept from his destination, he sees you differently than he would, had he been alive."

Harry looked back at Draco's general direction, eyebrows raised, and asked with halting speech, "And how do you… _see_ me, exactly?" He didn't know exactly what he meant with that question, whether he was referring to his physical appearance as seen through Draco's eyes, or as his… something else.

Draco turned his piercing gaze on him, silver eyes blazing with something that looked too close to disappointment, that Harry had to look away. "You're different Harry," Draco whispered lowly, "The Hallows are all over you, love. You stink of them."

The endearment "love" was said mockingly, making Harry internally flinch, but he calmed his building fury into something cold and precise, centered straight on his spine. Let his emotions be converted to something useful. Harry'll not have Draco seeing him cower because of a few choice words.

Yes. And I supposed you go about making it your business to sniff magical artifacts, Sebastian thought sarcastically.

"All strong magical being smell of something," Harry replied evenly, resolve solidifying, "That aside, you can't have expected me to have remained the same, considering the circumstances that took place before I was called to leave."

Draco chuckled low and ugly in his throat, shaking his head. "'Before you were called to leave', he says." His features contort to accommodate for the grotesque feelings he's about to let loose, Harry was sure. "You couldn't have been bothered to have left a note? Couldn't have sent a patronous saying, oh well, I don't know, I'm fucking leaving all your bleeding dead weight behind?!" Draco roared, hands clenched at his sides.

Harry sat, stiff as stone, and just as silent. He had nothing to say. He understood where Draco was coming from, he did, but saying so wouldn't do either of them any good. He had been nineteen before he left, though he felt far from it; the morale in state of affairs between muggle friendly magical folk and the purebloods were at an all-time low.

They had looked to him for leadership, for guidance, completely and absolutely. He tried to either steer clear of Ministry Officials all together, and on the rare occasion that he was confronted, he had done his best to try and ease the ill view the public had of the pureblood. It didn't do much good. Any instance he tried to be sensible about the treatment of the family members, either closely or loosely related to death eaters, there was a public uproar. They thought that because Harry wasn't all for putting all purebloods to death, it meant that he was in full support of blood purity. That he was the next coming Dark Lord.

He was always in the public eye. Someone was going to notice. While everyone else was aging, he was not.

If he couldn't sway the public into being reasonable about someone's blood status (that they obviously had no control over), how did he expect them to take into stride that he achieved what the Dark Lord could not? And surely, Draco remembered how Harry's closest friends, whom he's trusted with the entire wizarding Britain's lives on more than one occasion, as well as his own, reacted to hearing about Harry and Draco's... affiliation.

And what? Was he supposed to just pen out a nice little postage stating, "Dear Ron and Hermione, along with dating the youngest maelstrom Malfoy, I can also no longer die. Thanks for the mostly good times where you were decent friends, and I hope you grow old to be not as large arses that you are now, only to die a wrinkled permanent death that I will personally oversee. Goodbye." The idea was preposterous.

Harry knew he didn't make the best decision then, hell, but he knew it was the right one now. The right end, at the very least, even though it wasn't achieved by the best means. For the greater good, because damn it all! Harry knew intimately that he did have a decent teacher when it came to matters like that.

So he left.

Harry turned to Sebastian, just in time to see the young man give a slow blink. The apathy that was so clearly painted on the demon's face helped ease Harry's tense shoulders. Surely, given enough time, eons, probably, that he would eventually be as unaffected as Sebastian was to such a grave set of events?

Or maybe he'd always be like this, forever caught in the storm of silver who's center of calm will eternally be out of his reach?

Harry let out a miniscule sigh. This was supposed to just be business.

"Why are you here?" Harry asked evenly. The insufficient reaction from the previously said words had Draco slumping to his usual impeccable stance, though Harry could see that his eyes weren't as unaffected as the rest of Draco's body language might have someone think.

"You must know we searched for you, Harry." Harry did not, in fact, know that. The events must have fallen during the time frame when the other Masters taught him how to become one of them. "The perfect prodigal Potter loved and missed by all, intimately known by few, who trusted no one," Draco whispered mockingly, "Everyone looked for you. Everyone." The last word was said brokenly, sadly.

Everyone meant Draco, too, had been searching. Harry looked on steadily, though he felt the age in his bones begin to show. He felt heavier. That's what aging was said to do. That didn't make much sense because Harry simply couldn't get any older, but with this news, he suddenly felt older than Time.

"And that muggleborn friend of yours," Draco continued, "I always knew she was clever." Harry nodded in agreement. Where was this going? "And I suppose I can't be too surprised that you three always made it out alive every time, somehow. Even through the most difficult situations, you three were always barely scathed." Draco paused, switching his stance, and running his fingers through his hair. "Well, I know why now." Draco trailed off, staring at the far wall, refusing to look at Harry. "When that Granger girl gets desperate, she isn't just clever. She can be cruel."

Draco finally looked at Harry, eyes imploring for Harry to understand the words that were left unsaid, that he didn't want to say. Why? Was it horrible? Couldn't possibly be, it was Hermione. Harry looked on blankly, confused. What'd Hermione have to do with all this? Bushy haired, brilliant Hermione.

Sebastian cleared his throat, a quick cough behind a gloved hand. "Master," he said, voice low, "if I may?"

Harry's quick glance towards Draco's brisk nod revealed that the specter was just grateful for having been relieved of finishing the explanation. Harry gave a silent affirmative to Sebastian, and watched with cautious eyes as the butler opened his mouth to continue.

"Your Hermione, she's the one that did this to him," Sebastian finished, walking towards Draco's side to gesture at his overall hazy appearance.

Both onlookers saw Harry devoid of any reaction.

There must be some mistake.

"Your friend," Sebastian repeated, making a motion with his hands that gathered a faint red glow between his fingertips, "did all _this._ " The butler then flicked his fingertips, and with a groan coming from billions of broken voices from some unknown source, dust and dirt came cracking through Draco's appearance.

Harry's eyes widened in horror – notreadyNotReadyNOTREADY – but Draco looked calmly back, sad.

That was all that was left. He didn't look angry. He just looked sad.

Odd translucent layers started to peel with the setting dust and smoke, and slowly Draco began to age all his years in front of Harry's eyes. Layer by layer, Draco seemed to be skinned until all that was left was the weathered paper remains of a man who's seen life in its ugliest shades.

But isn't that what happened, though? To all of them?

"How…" Harry whispered, watching as Draco's image flickered in and out of focus to reveal the anguished open mouth expression of the Phantomhive heir. His eyes were still wide open. They were slightly pink. The child, too was in pain. Everyone was hurting right now, and Harry needed to pull himself together. "How old were you when she…" Harry trailed off, still quite unsure. Hermione? _His_ Hermione?

There must be some mistake.

Draco's cracked wrinkled lips did not move, but they tilted upwards in his usual smirk, as if reading the foolish denial in Harry's eyes. Sardonic and pitying, he whispered the reply of the age of which he had last seen life. "Twenty-two."

No.

Maybe ninety something in mortal standards, but they were wizards. So, what, maybe three hundred or so years? But not _twenty-two_.

There must be some mistake.

And with a gust of wind as dry as the desert, the image faded completely, leaving behind a crumpled child who fell to his knees.

Instinctively, Harry opened his arms, knowing somehow, that Ciel would come running brokenly towards him. For whatever reason, Harry had yet to figure.

Sebastian silently glided out of the library, probably to gather more biscuits and hot drinks, leaving Harry's arms full of a shivering, frightened, crying child and a lone thought ringing clear and loud between his ears;

There _must_ be some mistake.

 **READ AND REVIEW PLEASE. I answer all questions, and any form of feedback is appreciated.**


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